


Hazel and Whiskey

by Washedawaycloud



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 70s fashions, African Wizardry, Alternate Universe, Dark Magic, Evil Author Day, F/M, Gen, Grey Magic, Multi, Ritual Magic, Sex Magic, Time Travel, War Wixen, grey hermione, wizarding war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:41:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 66,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22737397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Washedawaycloud/pseuds/Washedawaycloud
Summary: Death Magic sends Hermione hurtling through time.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/James Potter, Sirius Black/Lily Evans Potter
Comments: 88
Kudos: 310





	1. Chapter 1

September 1, 1996

Your eyes are something that everyone talks about, especially when you haven’t got parents. At least, that’s what Harry has found ever since walking into the Wizarding World after his eleventh birthday. It’s the first thing anyone said to him, when over the age of 20, upon meeting him. His mother’s eyes. His father’s hair. The hair stopped being commented on after a year or two, his looks too reminiscent of his father to gain much interest after a time. Then, it was the same thing, over, and over, and  _ over,  _ again. Green eyes, Lily’s eyes, his  ** mother’s ** eyes. 

People were obsessed with his eyes, with his look, with  ** him ** and being a living shrine to two people he can’t remember, that he never knew. He is sixteen and nothing has ever upset him more than the phrase, ‘you have your mother’s eyes.’ He felt out of control this year, and it had hardly begun. His skin felt too tight. His mind could not settle in the way it traditionally did when he set foot back on the Hogwarts Express. 

Truthfully, this out of control feeling, started last year. Umbridge had ruined the place that had, until her arrival, been the place where Harry felt safest, the most at home. He was tired, of course, of being the Chosen One, fifteen and the hope of the English Wizard Community laid firmly upon his rather thin shoulders; but Hogwarts was the best place he knew on this planet. That damned pink clad toad of a woman had taken that away from him. Voldemort took his naïve perception of the world away shortly after. Snape, with his grudge against his father – well earned, but wrongly transferred, withheld the tool Harry needed to reclaim his mind, his sanity. 

Padfoot. He sighs, leaning his head against the cold glass of the train compartment window. Padfoot was gone because of him. His fault. Padfoot wouldn’t have been in the Department of Mysteries had it not been for him. Hermione would not have been their either. 

No one came out of the skirmish unscathed, but Hermione weighed on his consciousness most of all. Merlin, he wished he had listened to her. She was scarred now by unknown dark magic that nearly killed her. Ron had nearly been strangled to death, Luna had had a concussion, Neville’s wand had been broken. And Padfoot died. 

“Harry,” her voice, like gentle water with a touch of rasp,  brigs him from the anxiety building behind his breastbone. That knowledge that nothing was going to go right, that everyone, everything was wrong, lessened as he looked up into his best friend’s whiskey brown eyes. They are the lightest part of her, whiskey and caramel, such similar colors but distinct in their own way. Looking at her, he knows she’s worried. It’s just a feeling, as if, finally, after six years of friendship, he can intuit her feelings from a look.

“Yeah, ‘Mione?” He shifts to straighten and greet her properly. “Sorry. Million miles away.” The words feel hollow. Her nickname is leaden on his tongue. It seems so – wrong. Hermione, ‘Mione, ‘Mi, none sit correctly in his mouth. 

Her huff of breath brings him back again. Whiskey-Caramel eyes truly are worried now. She shoves at Ron and Neville, waving them to the other side of the compartment, a short, impatient move of her hand made to indicate him to trade with the other two. The three of them move silently, a little confused, but knowing better than to start arguing this early in their trip back. She tugs at him, and he goes, ending up on his side, his head pillowed on her thighs, her hands carding through his unruly hair.  Her fingertips pressed firmly into his scalp, and Harry finds himself rapidly relaxing, unfurling from the tense ball he’d unknowingly become. 

“What’s going on with you today? Is everything all right?” 

“I don’t know, it all feels, off, somehow.” The urge to call the other teen,  _ Mum _ , lodges in his throat, strangling him with shock. He doesn’t even think to call Molly Weasley that, and the woman had practically adopted him, her warmth and worry not abating even after the previous June. The train whistle sounds and the rhythmic churning of the train working begins underneath them. 

“Have you been dreaming?” Her voice is soft, the rasp, which is new, makes her seem smoke, ethereal in  someway he can’t quite name, but is utterly comforting. His cheek presses against her leg, the warmth evident through her summery skirt. 

“It’s been,” he chews at his lip, eyes on his friend’s knees across from them. Friends who are studiously conversing about quidditch and Neville’s new wand rather than listen in on his conversation. “It’s been a very long Summer, ‘Mione. But, not dreams, thank Merlin. None that I should worry about at any rate.” He is as quiet as she is, soaking in her warmth, reveling in the comforting feel of her fingers in his hair, the sound of her voice against the backdrop of the train and those wandering the halls outside their compartment. 

“I worry about you.” He almost misses it, the way she says it, it’s how he always wished Aunt Petunia would sound speaking to him, how his Mum might sound whilst fretting over him. “You have so much on your shoulders. You keep it all inside, you let yourself be guided by people who aren’t seeing you as a child, a teenager, but their personal warrior or weapon, their savior. I know you made team Captain this year, I hope you focus on that. On the flying, you do love it so.” 

It’s not the first time that Hermione has urged Harry to take time for himself. However, it  _ is _ the first time she’s done it in a public setting. He wonders if she knows the others could overhear her. He wonders if she cares. His eyes lift a bit, as he wonders if Ron has heard her, because he knows it would turn into an altercation if he had. In that moment, basking in her concern, in the love she’s showing him, Harry doesn’t feel very charitable to his redheaded friend. Harry  _ knows _ Ron is a little bit in love with Hermione, but the way he treats her is appalling. Harry had had quite a lot of time to reminisce and retrospective over the summer and he decided that he and Ron had  _ both _ treated Hermione appallingly over the past years. He hopes she never looks twice at Ron, especially in moments like this. She deserves so much more than the redhead could bring himself to give. 

“I’ll try.” He speaks at least, a half whisper, knowing he had permission might make it easier, but he wanted, strangely, to prove he could do more than just fly to her. He wanted to see her face shine with pride. He wanted her to know he’d learned from almost losing her and losing Sirius. Hard lessons, important lessons. “I have to go and grovel to Sn- to Professor Snape, first. I have to learn Occlumency properly. I can’t endanger anyone like that again.” 

Hermione’s fingers pause, and the hand on his head shifts, arm draping over him, pulling him back against her stomach in an awkwardly orchestrated embrace. In those few, awkward, moments, Harry feels closer to his family than ever before. He realizes, acknowledges that Hermione is a key figure in that family in the same span of time. He couldn’t let her down, and he couldn’t risk losing her ever again. 

“I’m so proud of you –“ her sentence is cut off, as the train screams to an abrupt halt. It hadn’t even stopped like this when the Dementors had come calling in their third year. Harry half tumbles to the ground of the compartment, but Hermione’s book that had been beside her does instead, her hands bracing him before the left flies up toward the ceiling and her shouted spell renders everyone in the compartment silent. 

“Blimey,” Ron exclaims, “where did you learn that?” It’s the first time Harry’s actually heard the other teen speak, since they switched seats. Green eyes meet blue, and the blue narrow before flinching away. “Did you just go ahead and read all the books on wandless magic while you were recovering or something?” 

“Yes, of course I did,” her answer is flippant, tone annoyed, but Harry, upon looking up, sees the way her mouth is pressed into a concerned line. He notes the way her brows are furrowed, pupils small. Adrenaline? Shock? She hadn’t meant to do that, he realizes, and it had been her taking a chance. A good one, as it had worked in everyone’s favor. 

He opens his mouth, just as the compartment lights flicker, shrieks of the eleven-year-olds echoing through the train. Just a handful of compartments away, an explosion rocks the train, causing more shrieks to echo, this time not only from the youngest students. 

“Death Eaters,” Hermione’s voice jars them all into slipping their wands into their hands and gripping them tightly as her hands shove Harry off to the side. She stands, putting herself between him and the door. “That’s the only thing that makes a bit of sense. The train wouldn’t just stop. It’s Death Eaters or, improbably, Dementors –“

“but it’s not cold,” Neville’s face is grim as he finishes Hermione’s thought. His knuckles are white as his fingers tighten on the handle of his new wand. He takes a up a spot beside Hermione, between Harry and the door. Ron is beside- no, just slightly in front of them. 

“Damn,” the curly haired witch looks at them all nervously. “I wish they taught the theory of apparition earlier. We’re sitting ducks here. How is this train not warded against ill-intent?” She huffs and takes stock of the situation as quickly as she can, noting several flashes of light reflected in the glass of the other compartments. She hastily pulls the shades. “Lock the door, strongest locking charm you know, each of us takes a turn to layer them, put the trucks in front of the door, we’ll enlarge them, windows too. Ward the windows.” Her tone brooks no argument, hard and sure. The boys hop to, and as the screaming becomes louder, they set their protections in place. 

Hermione is sweating. She should be out there, with the other Prefects, trying to keep the younger children safe.  But, Harry is  _ here _ , and she has to keep him alive. It’s a drive so strong it would be a miracle if she could ignore it for a moment, if at all. So, she stays, she waits, first in line if someone comes through the door. They need to get Harry off this train, Ron and Neville, Luna and Ginny too. Anyone close to Harry is a target, herself included. 

“Dobby!” Her panic had been enough she forgot entirely about the zealous little elf. He comes to them with a resounding crack, big orb like eyes peering from under a mountain of hats. 

“Missy Hermione?” 

“I need you to get Harry, Ron, Neville, Luna, and Ginny off the train to Hogwarts, as fast as you can. When you’ve got them all safe, you come for me.” 

“Hermione!”

“No!” The word is snapped at the when the chorus of her name rises above what would go unnoticed outside the compartment. “ _ No _ . You lot first, then me. No arguments, it’s the way it has to be. Dobby take Harry now.” 

Harry feels a stone settle in the depths of his stomach as Dobby looks at him, as Hermione’s eyes settle on him, warm, loving, but flinty and ready for war. Why does this feel like goodbye? He’s opening his mouth, ready to demand Dobby take as many as they can from the compartment to lessen the chances they’re found, when a wrinkled hand takes his, and Ron yelps from his side. He feels pinched, squeezed, and is in the Great Hall in a blink of an eye. 

“-‘ Mium .” The odd hybridization of Mione and Mum leaves him as a stricken gasp. “Dobby get a friend, one for each of them, for Ginny, for Nev – “

The house elf cracks away and Harry wants to scream. Instead, he darts out of the hall, looking desperately for a teacher. Any of the staff will do. He’ll take Snape, even  _ Trelawny _ if that will get someone to alert the Aurors and Ministry to what is happening on the train at this very moment. 

“Professor! Mr. Filch! Mrs. Norris!  ** Someone! ** ” His voice is cracking as panic takes hold of him, tears welling, chest constricting. He has to find someone, so Hermione can be safe. Save Mione. Save her. Save her. Save her. 

“Has Missy Weasley!” Dobby cracks back into the train compartment with a pale, shaken Ginny in tow. Neville and Hermione are standing back to back, waiting as the screams just keep gathering in volume. There’s yelling now, adults are out there. Growls. Some creatures with them. Crying and abruptly aborted yells. Hermione’s heart is thudding against her ribcage, her stomach feels like it’s in her throat, pulse pounding a beat of fear. Harry is out, Ron is out. Soon Gin and Neville will be out too.

“What about Luna?!”

“ Gots Winky to help! She’ll be here  soons .” Dobby reaches for Neville and Hermione can feel him struggle. 

“No just take us –“

“Go now Dobby!” Save the kids. 

What a strange thing to think, and yet, it beats through her mind like her heart does in her chest. The resounding crack makes her sag with relief, and she whispers the shielding spell. Part of her assumes she won’t be making it out of here. Terrified though she is, she is also at peace with that. Harry is safe. Ron is safe. Luna, Neville, and Ginny are safe. Her priorities are safe. 

The first curse hits the door and Hermione can’t contain a whimper. She has no idea how long Dobby has been gone, or if Winky got Luna out safely. She doesn’t even know how long it’s taken for this whole ordeal to get underway, but this is it. Her palms are slick, curls crackling with her anxious magic. She can hold them off. She knows she can at least do that. Dolohov didn’t kill her, and whoever is on the other side of that door won’t either. 

Knowing that, having  _ lived _ through a death eater attack, doesn’t stop her from shaking or tossing up all the wards she’d read of over the summer that aren’t powered by blood or dangerous to innocents in neighboring compartments. Her breathing is picking up, and the seconds tick by. She’s positive, that when Dobby finally grabs her, her hair will be like a bush on her head, and not lying around her shoulders as normal, a proper afro the likes of which rarely sees the light of day during school months. 

“Professor McGonagall! Professor Snape!” Harry practically bowled the pair over as he turned the corner toward his Head of House’s office. The shock of it doesn’t stop him or even cause him to stumble over his words, but lack of breath does from all the running. Dobby should have been back with Hermione by now. But she hasn’t come screeching down the hallway, so his worry is increasing exponentially. 

“Potter?” His Head of House reaches out to steady him with hands upon his shoulders. “What in the blazes are you doing here? The Express shouldn’t even be halfway to Scotland yet.” 

“He no doubt –“

“Sorry, Sir,” Harry sucks in a deep breath as he cuts off whatever snide remark Snape might have been ready to deliver. “Professors the train is under attack. Hermione called for Dobby and got us out. She’s still there, I think. The rest of the students are unprotected, though hopefully they won’t hurt them. Please, you’ve got to alert the Ministry and send Aurors!” 

“We  _ have _ to do nothing, Potter – “ 

“Professor, please. Just look. Look if you don’t believe me, but don’t leave them defenseless.” 

Severus Snape sucked in a sharp breath when emerald and whiskey eyes settle on his, pleading, sincere. Those were not Lily’s eyes. Not as he remembered them. His head pounds and the boy’s eyes seem to shimmer for a single moment.

Hermione cries out, twisting away from the blast that has made it through the door. She barely felt the small hand that grabbed her, didn’t feel the splash of hot liquid against her legs. What she can feel, is a piece of  _ something _ , hitting her side, and the shock of pain that followed, coupled with the pull of apparition, and then, then she knew nothing more. 


	2. Chapter 2

September 1, 1976 

It’s an auspicious day. A day that would go down in history as the day he, James Fleamont Potter, first of his name, would finally get Lily Evans to say yes to becoming his girlfriend. He and his three friends were well on their way to becoming fully fledge Wizards. This time next year, would by their last foray into formal learning at a place they’d all considered a home away from home since their eleventh birthdays. They’d settled their O.W.L.S and James in particular found himself feeling quite pleased with how his summer had gone. 

He’d received the requisite O’s and E’s to take a Law Mastery to put him on track to one day be a part of the Ministry beyond holding the Potter Wizengamut Commons seat. A seat that should reside within the Lords, but he had plans to rectify that. The Sacred 28 were due for a shakeup and he aimed to give it at his earliest possible convenience. He wasn’t quite sure when that would be, as of yet, but the longer the war dragged on outside of Hogwarts, the more his father and mother whispered in worry about it, the more James wanted to do things that would effect change. Something that would squash the bigotry that would make his friends lives hell down the road. 

It’s not something he made public knowledge, oh no, he was a star Chaser, he was a ‘pretty boy’, popular, a mischief maker, and people knowing he wanted to become some great effector of change just wouldn’t do. No. He’d rather let them underestimate him, his classmates and those who had come before. He could use it to his advantage later. A very Slytherin way of thinking, but his mother was a Black, a Slytherin and he came by it honestly. 

“Oi, get your head out of the clouds, Potter.” Sirius’ barking laughter makes James raise a brow, leaning forward so his elbows settle on his knees, careful not to wrinkle his trousers. 

“What’s that, Sirius? Something important that can’t be kept from my attention?” Hazel eyes flash behind horn rimmed glasses as he regards the boy he classes as a brother. After the end of the year, when Sirius had moved in, it was pretty much a signed and sealed fact, James Potter and Sirius Black were the Scions of House Potter. The Family magic had even settled around his dearest friend, shifting his predilection toward Dark magics to those of a lighter feel. 

“The Welcome Feast is but hours away, mate. We’ve been planning this for weeks! Don’t tell me you’ve let some imp in your ear and dissuade you from the carnage we’re sure to create.” Those pearl white teeth hide a mean streak that sometimes shocks the slightly shorter teen, but it doesn’t lessen his bond with the taller boy. Not one iota. 

“Carnage sounds so grisly, Sirius. Must you be so crass?” Remus sighs quietly from James’ left, and makes the three other occupants of the compartment chuckle lowly. 

“Moony, you know me. Always got my foot in it, but, your delicate sensibilities will just have to endure. We’re going to show the school just how brilliant we are with this one, mark my words!” 

“You’ve s-said that for a half hour now, S-s-Sirius.” Peter spoke carefully, visibly annoyed when he couldn’t overcome the stutter that has plagued him for years. “You’ve not told us what you two c-con c-c-cocted.” 

“Well boys, it’s like –“ 

Sirius had been gearing up for a grand plan layout, scooting forward onto the edge of his seat, lowering his voice to draw the others in. It’s his flair for the dramatic put to good use after days of being responsible. His Great-Aunt Dorea had made sure the last few weeks of summer were spent whipping her boys into shape. While the woman had no faith in bloody purity, she placed heavy weight on decorum, proper behavior, and traditional manners. She, however, is at least a far cry kinder about it than Walburga could ever have claimed to be. 

But, their little pow wow is doomed, interrupted by a bang that is more akin to an explosion. It had the four jumping to their feet, startled, wary, and just in time to witness something rather strange. It was a bit like the air in the compartment across the way had splintered. Or perhaps it was magic, latent but now coming alive, cracking and warping perception. Either way, the cracks were visible for all but a moment before a young woman flew through the compartment door, landing heavily on the ground between four sets of feet. 

“Bloody hell!” 

“Is she, all right? 

“What the blazes just happened?” 

“Merlin, look at her, her legs are covered in blood, there’s a bit of door in her side. She’s dead for sure!” 

The exclamations weren’t only from the Marauding Gryffindors, students from neighboring compartments had heard the commotion, seen not the cracks, but certainly the young woman crashing through doors. The four were at a loss until the shock wore off. 

“Sirius go get the Head Boy and Girl, a train attendant, someone.” Remus knelt beside the young woman, looking her over, swinging his wand in familiar movements, ones usually done over himself once a month by Madame Pomfrey. “James, give me your jumper, we need to elevate her legs, keep her circulation down a bit. Peter, I need something to tie around the wound.” 

“She’s not one of our classmates, is she?” The sandy haired and plump boy moved quickly, rifling through his bag, he might have an extra shirt or something in there that could be sacrificed for the cause. James busily pulled his jumper over his head, kneeling at her feet, tucking the balled material under her knees a moment before deciding that was inadequate and, lifting her legs so her knees were over his arm. He stationed himself, so he blocked the view of anyone looking into the compartment, and made sure her dignity remained intact, smoothing her skirt so it laid flat, or as flat as it was going to for the moment. 

“Dunno, I can’t remember seeing someone who looks like her.” He takes a good look at the young woman. She’s not exceedingly tall, probably around five feet or so in his estimation. She’s all gentle curve and dark rich skin, soft skin as well if the brief feel of her legs was anything to go by. A fact that he did not dwell on out of respect for the unconscious girl. 

“She’s not got on a uniform, but she’s got – or had – a wand, so at least we know she’s a witch, yeah? Anything broken, Remus? She looks right tangled and that can’t be good for her.” 

“Can’t move her yet, not unless we levitate her.” Remus shakes his head as he speaks. He’s never seen such curly hair. Witches like her usually used James’ dad’s potion to have sleek and shiny locks. He’s witnessed it all over London. In Muggle London there were girls who wore their hair curly like this, but few and far between. More as American Cinema popularized it, but still, he’d know her. 

“I don’t recognize her scent, either. It’s not one I’d know.” That is said lowly, conspiratorially after a fashion, amber flecked eyes flickering up to the blasted apart doorway where some students have gathered. “Oi, Clear off you lot. Nothing to see here! Don’t make me start pulling points, we’re not even to the castle yet!” 

“Hell, this is a mess. Witch but we don’t know her. She doesn’t look old enough to be graduated, does she?” James could only imagine what had befallen her. Her skin pulsed with magic, magic not her own, because he could feel that as well, writhing angrily against what was there artificially, fighting it off. IT clicks after several seconds. 

“She got hit with an offensive spell, a powerful one too.” 

“Not just that, look at her collarbone, Prongs.” Remus moves his hands from where they are now steadying the young mystery woman’s head, and it flutters over where he’s talking about. A scar peaks just over the scalloped lace hem of her shirt – a rather racy shirt at that now that James is looking at it properly. Thinnest straps he’s ever seen, and he can see her bra straps too! But the scar, if he concentrates, he can feel it, that pulse of malevolence. It’s weak, she’s likely been healing months now, but that was dark magic that had created the scar, greying otherwise perfect dark skin in it’s wake. 

“That’s – what is that? What caused it I mean.” Peter looks like he’s ready to crawl out of his skin, eyes a light with worry and no small amount of fear. 

The sandy blond shakes his head helplessly. He has no idea what spell would cause that scar, it doesn’t look like any descriptions he’s seen in Defense texts nor heard of during lectures. It’s something either foreign or new, and neither is particularly palatable. It looks to be bisecting her sternum, so she’s lucky to be alive, if that’s the case, lucky to not be more obviously disfigured too. 

“I got the nurse!” Sirius almost trips himself barreling toward them, catching himself on a sturdy bit of wall that’s left of their compartment. “Ma’am she’s here!” 

“All right, Mr. Black, let’s see what the commotion –“ a young woman that none of the Teens is familiar with appears and her sentence trails off at the sight of the girl on the floor. With wide eyes she has her wand out and starts diagnostic spells Remus had done not long ago. 

“You did well to keep her legs elevated, gentlemen. Has she said anything, did you see what happened to put her in this state?” Her eyes flicker up away from her patient to the surrounding area. It didn’t look as if there had been a scuffle, but something blasted the door to bits, and she looked worse for wear. She was picking up dark magic, concentrated mostly in the scarring on the girl’s chest, but a thin layer seemed to cling to her currently. Lips thinning, the Matron’s mouth opens when the girl groans lowly. 

“Dobby? Did- did we make it? Did we get to Hogwarts?” Her voice is soft, sort of smoky and the boys all take notice. It’s a pretty voice, they’d acknowledge it too, under different circumstance. As it is, they are all just pleased she is alive and not sinking into some sort of coma even if her words are a bit garbled and slurred. 

“Miss? You were hurt, can you tell me your name.” 

“Hermione.” That smoky rasp comes again before her eyes roll around the room, pupils not reacting to the light a bit. “Where’s Harry? Are we on the train? Aurors came? Professor Dumbledore?” Her eyes roll again, and she goes limp once more. 

“I need to take her to the Infirmary, possibly St. Mungo’s. Apparition is dangerous in her condition, it could make that concussion of hers worse, her magic may react defensively because of the delicate state she’s in.” Muttering the elder woman sighs and straightens. 

“All right, back away, gentlemen, I’m levitating her to the train front.” Her eyes flicker over Hermione’s dress and her lips purse. “If one of you could be so kind as to lend her a robe for modesty’s sake?” 

James shrugs his off immediately and offers it to the Witch. With a nod of approval, the Medi-Witch wraps Hermione in the much too large cloak before levitating her slowly and taking her from the compartment, leaving the four boys in silence. 

“Did you hear her?” James whispers, a little shaken really, by the state of the girl, now noticing the blood on his hands from where he’d touched her legs lifting them. It makes him go pale and hastily cast a cleaning charm, several, to the relief of his afflicted friend. 

“Sounds like there was an attack somewhere, and she meant to get to Hogwarts.” Remus whispers with his brows drawn together. “I don’t know the name Dobby, or Harry, but she was asking for Dumbledore. So, she has to be a student.” 

“Odd, though. I thought we knew all the people in our year, even the dungeon snakes.” 

“I’d have noticed her before,” asserts Sirius, “Slytherin or not, she’s got legs that go up to her neck, and please don’t lecture Remus, I’ve got eyes. Even in that situation they were rather hard to miss.” 

“Still,” Remus sighs with disapproval, “you don’t notice a good portion of the girls throwing themselves at you. What’s to say you simply skipped her over?” 

“What about Classes,” Peter asks quietly, the shock of it all leaving him pale and a bit shaky. “We’d have seen her in a class somewhere. Herbology with Huffs’, Astrology with the ‘Claws, potions with Slytherins, but I don’t remember ever seeing her.” 

“We’ll sort it when we get to school. She wanted Professor Dumbledore, and he knows everything.” James replies, a look all those in the compartment know well. “We’ll use the cloak. I, for one, don’t like the idea of not knowing if someone is alive or dead on this train or hanging somewhere in between.” 

“Don’t go speaking things into existence, James. She woke up, she’ll be all right.” Remus’ eyes are pained as he speaks, and James understands. The idea she might die – is terrifying. It’s the first time some notion of the war had come to their doorstep proper. 

Minerva McGonagall was not accustomed to the Thestral drawn carriages approaching the castle at dead gallops. It was the first carriage to make it to the castle, one of the Mungo’s Medi-Witches bursting from the inside with a harried look on her face. Minerva, uncharitably, worried that this was a student either caught in the crossfire of the four Gryffindor boys who’d taken to calling themselves Marauders and their latest dueling target. Or a prank target. 

“Deputy Headmistress,” when the woman stands fully, McGonagall recognizes her. Former Hufflepuff, very good with charms and herbs. Medi-Witch was a good profession for her. “A young woman was injured on the train ride to school. I’ve kept her stable, but I hadn’t any of the necessaries to properly heal her. I’ll be bringing her to –“ 

“The Infirmary, of course. Madame Pomfrey is already there, ready for the year. Please, “ she gestures and half turns, indicating the young woman go about her duties. She does not contain her interest in finding out who the student is that was injured. “Who was hurt? How were they hurt?” 

“Her name is Hermione ma’am,” the witch responds while levitating the young woman wrapped in a cloak from the carriage. “Mister Black – the elder one – came to get me, she appeared in his compartment, bloodied and unconscious. There’s a good deal of dark magic residue clinging to her, she asked after someone called Dobby, Harry, and the Headmaster.” 

The Transfiguration teacher took that in with a surprised blink. Appearing in the train, injured? That wasn’t common. However, the Death Eater attacks had been growing more frequent of late. Still, if the girl was a witch, and no doubt she is, she should have been on the train when the attack occurred. There are many unanswered questions, and it makes the elder Witch’s magic itch. 

Hermione comes to sometime later, installed in a bed she knows the like of, in a room she’s been in several times before. Most recently from June into July, nearly August if she hadn’t begged to be allowed to go home. Her clothes have been replaced by a plain white gown, and she shoves herself upright, wincing when some muscles protest. 

At least she’d made it to Hogwarts. She’d not been sure she would for a dark moment. Something feels off, however. Harry and Ron are nowhere to be found, nor is Luna or Neville. That isn’t quite normal for a stay in the Hospital Wing. 

“Ah, you’re awake. We were worried you might not.” Madam Pomfrey bustles in, Hermione knows it’s the Madam, her face is the same, but the lines are gone. The little bits of silver and black that peak from under the Nurse’s hood aren’t present. Her hair isn’t covered at all, pulled high into a severe bun that is fully black. The younger witch swallows, something has gone very wrong. “Anastasia said you asked after the Headmaster – he’ll be along shortly.” 

Madam Pomfrey hovers a moment, checks with a spell and cursory look to make sure Hermione is not still bleeding before coming to a decision. “I can send for a light meal to be brought for you. Unfortunately, young lady, you’ve missed the Sorting feast. You should be right as rain to go to your dorm tomorrow morning, however, the bruising on your ribs and spine has gone down dramatically, and we were able to get the swelling of your brain corrected as well. Still, it was a close call for you. I have to ask, who did this to you? Why weren’t you on the train with the rest of the students?” 

Her brain stutters to a halt. Why wasn’t she on the train? What did Pomfrey mean? Hermione had been on the train, she’d been apparated to Hogwarts. Or should have been. She has a sinking feeling that is not what actually occurred. From Poppy’s lack of silvered hair, to the suspicious lack of her friends asking what had happened, Hermione is surer than ever that something has gone very, very wrong. 

“I – I don’t know, Madam Pomfrey. Could – could you ask Professor Dumbledore to come at his earliest convenience?” Something has gone off, is left unspoken, rattling around her brain. She liked the Matron, trusted her even, but what Hermione remembered and what would be believed may not add up for the woman. Hermione doesn’t fancy a go in St. Mungo’s either. 

After Dinner, the quad of friends made haste to gather up James’ Invisibility Cloak and make a Bee-line for the Infirmary. The Headmaster hadn’t made any announcements concerning the girl who’d crashed into their lives that afternoon, which meant he likely hadn’t spoken to her yet. All of them were curious about her, more than they normally would have been. Witches covered in blood and addled from an attack aren’t normal, Witches appearing out of cracks in magic or reality are not normal. 

“Think she made it? The Healer’s carriage took off like a shot when we got off the train.” Peter’s voice held a certain quality to it that set Remus’ hair on end. It wasn’t excitement, but there was something about the tone of his voice that was wrong for that question. 

“She can’t have passed on; the Headmaster would have said.” Sirius was the one to bite out the words, unease clear, words even a bit angry at the notion of a classmate dying. Dying on the Express to one of the safest places in the United Kingdom? Impossible. 

They were all conveniently forgetting about poor Myrtle’s demise. It may have been thirty years ago - but it still happened. 

“Okay, we’re here. Now disillusionment spell too, you know how the Headmaster always seems to know we’re here even with the cloak,” James muttered, pulling his wand and muttering the spell. While he didn’t usually worry about the Headmaster bowing their cover, and he’d really only seen Dumbledore see him once it was better safe than kicked out and left without information. 

“She’s over there,” Remus points them in the correct direction once the spell work has been completed by each of them, and they move quietly toward their destination. It’s a bit easier to get close quick when Pomfrey bustles about the area, the soft crack of a house elf’s arrival and departure working in their favor as well. They hover near the end of the bed, and take the girl in. 

She’s sitting up, awake, hands shaking slightly as she sips her soup. Her hair is… well, it was crushed from her landing no doubt, and further pressed out of shape with her having been in the bed, but the curls are wild, almost angry in appearance. Corkscrews pointing this way and that haphazardly. She’s got a bit of mascara on, or had, it was mostly around her eyes now, another indicator toward sleep. No dark bruising under her eyes, just clear dark skin, high cheekbones. 

She looks a bit flush to Remus, but it may be the stark white she’s seemingly surrounded with, rather than the young woman actually having a fever. He’s struck by her eyes, the distress in them. Sure, her actual eyes are lovely, sort of a firewhiskey color with flicks of honey-amber. They almost glow. Right now, that almost glow is clearly worry, but it’s not hard to imagine how they would light up with a smile or laughter. 

Sirius is less enchanted with her eyes. Her hair makes him smile, a curly himself, he understands the care it takes to keep it nice. What this woman must have to do to keep those coils in line he imagines is time intensive and utterly frustrating. Still, that wildness somehow suits her, it’s soft after a fashion, too. What draws his eyes on her is typical, expected even – the little witch’s mouth. The corners are pulled down, and he can’t figure out if it’s worry or discontent or pain, but it doesn’t take away. It doesn’t enhance, but it doesn’t make her seem utterly unapproachable. It makes him rather keen on approaching actually, to see the corners lift, plush lips pulling into a smile. He could also see himself biting her pouty bottom lip – but it’s something he pushes away for once, the mystery of her more important than his hormones. 

Peter watches her and isn’t sure what to make of the girl with the nose that sloped just so. He isn’t sure why he keeps looking at her nose, it’s a nose. A bit wide through the bottom, not Roman, thankfully for her, not European at all but not bold in her small face. Peter looks at Hermione and doesn’t see anything much of interest. 

James sees a young woman who is out of sorts, maybe even scared. From the shake in her delicate grip on the spoon, to the way her far hand is visibly fisted in the fabric of the bed’s sheets, nothing exudes calm clarity. He’d be worried, suspicious even, if she were utterly fine. 

“Apologies, Poppy – that is – Madam Pomfrey didn’t catch me before I went to the Owlery after Supper. I would have come had I known you were awake. You caused a bit of a stir, I’m told, with your abrupt arrival on the train this afternoon.” 

“It’s all right,” Hermione swallows thickly, looking up from her soup. Her nose was driving her mad, a few minutes ago, a spicy scent had filled the room. Sort of like cologne, if she wasn’t fairly sure she was alone, the curly headed bookworm would be certain it was. It was a bit like…Sirius. “I didn’t intend to cause alarm.” 

“Often we do not strive to do so,” the Headmaster cuts in, chuckling, summoning over a chair and taking a seat at her side. “Let’s start with your name, and then move onto more distressing things, shall we?” 

“Hermione, my name is Hermione.” She keeps her last name to herself, heart frozen in her chest. The Headmaster didn’t know her. Madam Pomfrey didn’t know her and looked much younger than when she’d last seen the Healer. Even Dumbledore looks different. His beard isn’t as long, his eyes are more twinkly, crow’s feet just a touch less pronounced. Everything in the logic driven witch is shouting that she’s done something impossible. 

“I wonder, before we get into the details, Sir. Did Dobby – that is to say – a house self, was a house elf with me?” 

“No, my dear, there was no house elf with you.” Curiosity flares in those damned twinkly eyes and Hermione let out a deep sigh, hands twisting in her sheets. No Dobby. Her eyes shut, and she goes over what she remembers of the last few hours. The attack, sending Ron and Harry off first. The spells bombarding the trunks, her shield charm. Panic and the crack of apparition. Harry Potter’s Mione! The blast of wood and glass and feeling of warmth on her legs. 

“Oh.” The word is watery, her voice watering as tears fill her eyes. Dobby may not have been her elf, or even a good friend, but he helped Harry quite a bit. He was a good soul, and she probably got him killed. 

“I was attacked,” she speaks lowly, a weight settling on her shoulders now that she knows, more or less, the fate of the Elf who saved her. “My brothers and I, we made it a bit of a habit to – thwart plans of the Dark Lord. Nothing spectacular, nothing newsworthy. Mind you – it was a stupid thing to do. He had us attacked as we were heading for the train, we hadn’t thought we caught his interest -” 

“Hermione, are you saying you were attacked by Death Eaters? In broad daylight.” He sounds grim, to Hermione’s ears. A little horrified and resigned. It makes her angry. He can’t be resigned to children dying at the hands of Death Eaters. There was no reason for him to be complacent about it. There was no reason for anyone to hear those words and say ‘what can we do’ or wring their hands while they hem and haw over how to deal with it. Her fingers grip the sheets tighter and soon they will rip if she isn’t careful. 

“Yes, Headmaster. Death Eaters attacked my- my brothers. We barricaded ourselves as best we could, and I called for the house elf. I told it to take… to take my brothers first, to get three of our closest friends to safety and then come back for me.” 

“Why did you designate yourself last?” 

She understands why he would ask. Anyone would want to get to safety as soon as possible. Hermione needed Harry safe. She needed his safety beyond her own at all times. It’s a feeling that’s strengthened over the last few years. Not in a romantic fashion, but he was her family. She didn’t have siblings, her parents loved her, yes, but couldn’t understand the magical world. Harry understood her, he may side with Ron during fights, but Harry understands her. She knows he does. 

“I had to keep my brothers safe. Their safety will always be more important than my own. I didn’t expect –“ the words lodge in her throat, not out of emotion, but because she knows how it will sound to someone who has no idea how important Harry is to her. Dumbledore, this Dumbledore, he doesn’t know Harry. He’s made not a single peep to ask about Ron or Harry. He’s too different from the man she’s spent five years learning under the watchful eye of. “I didn’t expect to make it to the school alive, Headmaster. I knew what it meant to save myself last. I will always save myself last when it comes to the people I love, especially Har-my brother.” 

A twinkle starts up in the Headmaster’s eyes listening to the strange young woman. He suspected there is more to her than she is letting him see. There are several options at present for him, several paths he could go down. Legilimency would be expedient to solving the mystery of Hermione. The book of potential students may shed some light on the young woman, but not enough. There is something in her that is too mature, far too mature for a sixteen-year-old woman. Choosing to die for her friends, her brother? Perhaps her brother, perhaps she would choose to die for him. Perhaps she is a pure soul who wants no one hurt that she loves. He has hope for that, but he has been fooled many times in his long life, even by himself. Outright asking her to tell him everything could prove disastrous. So, the ball is rather firmly within her court. 

A little Knight who could be Queen, not yet fully polished, not yet in her full armor, crown a far-off possibility. She is no pawn, that much Albus is vividly aware of, just looking at her, the way she’s moved so her shoulders are thrown back, her eyes meeting his. She knows him, there is recognition there, a modicum of comfort telegraphed by her body language but she’s hiding something precious. 

“Well, it seems, Miss Hermione, that the hour is quite late indeed. If it won’t prove to taxing on your recovery, I will visit again tomorrow. We can settle the matter of your uniforms and supplies. You’ve been through a great deal. Do you have anyone I can owl – to enquire –“ 

“No.” Her voice is hard, and the tears that had welled finally fall. “If they aren’t here. I can’t reach them now.” 

“I am terribly sorry, Miss Hermione, for your tremendous loss.” 

“Thank you, Headmaster.” 

Hermione takes a deep shuddering breath when the Headmaster makes his exit. Her eyes stare at the tray and remnants of her meal. The Headmaster did not know her. Even with the slip of Harry’s name, there was no spark of recognition. This, this was worse than the worst-case scenario. Her friends are somewhere without her, safe, presumably, but the train left with only the prefects to defend it. Her hands slowly unclench and lift to run over her face, into her hair. It’s all mounting up. The stress, the trauma. 

Her hair crackles and her teeth grind. She’s been practicing. Ever since she could sit up in the Infirmary over the summer she’s dedicated herself to learning some spells in their wandless form. Now she swipes her hand and silences her space. The moment she’s sure she’s free of prying eyes and ears – she lets go. 

An anguished howl leaves her lips, eyes squeezing shut as her hands fall to press against her breast bone. Gone. She’s gone. Harry and Ron out of reach. Home out of reach. Safety virtually unattainable if she couldn’t secure a place here with this Headmaster. Her secrets spelled death. Hermione was no idiot. Idealistic, absolutely, but in the depths of her heart, she knew war was but a numbers game. Did b’s strength equal or out strip, a’s? Did b have more information, money, intelligence, tacticians at their disposal than a did. 

Well, Hermione has no great wealth, no people to back her, logic as her only tactical support. There is no telling when she is, and it has to be when, not where. There is no telling what has been told, and what must yet come to be. Her knowledge is her death. 

“I – I have to forget.” She leans back in her pillows, eyes staring at the ceiling. “I have to forget it all… until the right time. I can’t risk Harry. I can’t. I won’t.” The verbal realization has her sucking in a deep breath her chest goes tight. Could she save them? Could she be so selfish to try and save those closest to him? 

“Weigh the pros and the cons. Remember when the time is right. It’s not. It’s dangerous now.” She speaks to herself, head shifting on the pillow, so she stares out into the ward listlessly. “I’m all alone here.”


	3. Chapter 3

James feels his throat close hearing Hermione howl like she’d become a banshee. The pain of it cracks him somehow. He didn’t have a blood sibling, but if something were to happen to Sirius or Remus, he’d go spare. Absolutely spare. And if they died? As he suspected Hermione’s brothers had? Gods, the world would burn. He’d happily burn it to see those that harmed them come to the same fate.

It makes him uncomfortable, watching the young woman cry like this, listening in on her fears, fears she won’t even tell Dumbledore – arguably one of the  _ greatest _ Wizards since Merlin. Whatever happened to her, was terrible. Whatever was coming for her, terrifying.

“We ought to go,” Remus murmurs lowly, as she stares through them. It’s – disturbing. “She needs to grieve. We have no place here.”

“Bloody right.” Sirius chimes, while Peter stays quiet, eyes locked on the woman in the bed. It is odd, how silent the plump blonde has been. Usually he could be counted on to make some comment, ill-timed or ill worded. Yet he hasn’t. James shakes off the distress that makes him feel, looking away pointedly as he nods.

“Muffle our feet, let’s get out of here.”

They leave the Infirmary quickly, near silently without any close calls. When they’re away and sure they won’t be seen, the cloak is tossed off of the four boys. James takes great breaths of air and shakes his head. Looking at his friends, he sees they are all pale, looking as shaken as he feels.

“She wouldn’t tell Dumbledore what happened.”

“She told him what he asked, Padfoot.” His voice seems hollow and he can’t shake it.

“Dumbledore asked her if Death Eaters attacked her and her brothers in broad daylight. And they did. You heard her talking, right? She asked about a house elf – she’s half blood or pure, and the Dark bleeding Lord sanctioned an attack on her.”

“Y-you don’t know that.” Peter refutes quietly. “She might be half or pure, but her parents might have done something, you know, against  _ him _ to make her a target. He hasn’t attacked pure families –“

“Not publicly.” James seethes. He rakes his hands through his hair. “It’s not in the papers but that doesn’t mean it’s isn’t happening, yeah? Think about all the other attacks. Think about what was splashed in the papers this summer. This is getting out of hand, I think it might actually be a war.”

“It will be,” Sirius mutters, looking green. “After the pressure put on me by Walburga and Orion to do the ‘right thing’ to take up with that lot of bastards, it’s going to be a war. How can it not be? I just don’t understand how it hasn’t become one already, how no one has stood against him properly yet.”

“It’s a bit like the rise of Grindelwald,” Remus started, motioning for his friends to follow him, lest the Matron leave the Infirmary and spot them. 

“Grindelwald was charismatic, his ideas touted under the banner  ‘ _ For the greater good _ , ’ and he spoke to people’s fears. High society is scared of becoming overwhelmed by the common and ‘undeserving’.” His shoulders shrug, trying to retain his cool manner while mentally goggling at his two friends who he had assumed did not pay much attention to the reports published on this Lord Voldemort.

“It stands to reason, that the Dark Lord is just as charismatic, and just as dangerous maybe more so for it. It reminds me a bit of a muggle  history  lesson on Adolf Hitler. He rose to power by being charismatic, by giving fear a voice and then fear a tangible enemy. Look how that turned out for the muggles. The entire world warred with one another to stop him.”

“Bloody hell, Moony, I hope it won’t take the whole world to stop this new and improved Dark Lord.” Sirius mutters darkly, shaking his head, steps heavy on the stones. If it came to that, could the world win against a Wizard that powerful?

Page Break

Hermione only slept because Pomfrey, upon finding her mid-panic attack, had dosed her with a calming draught followed by a few drops of Dreamless Sleep. Her body was so exhausted, the magical backlash of what had occurred likely the culprit, left her unable to resist even the scant few drops of potion given to her. She slept until the sun rose high in the sky and fluttered to wakefulness to see the faces of three boys staring at her silently. 

Wide eyed, her first instinct was to go for her wand. Which was not available to her, her second was to shove herself up and crowd against the headboard. It takes a pregnant pause before the people swim into true focus. And then it’s hard to keep herself from gasping. He looked like Harry. Taller, certainly, than his son had been when she left, far healthier, hair a touch browner than it is midnight, eyes hazel and rounder, nose bigger. Sirius – Sirius looked nothing like himself, not the man she’d known at any rate, no tattoos, no years and years of psychological torture marring his features, giving him lines where there should have been only a hint instead of the wrinkles he’d had, starvation making a  swarthy golden toned complexion, sallow and grey . And Lupin, dear, kind Professor Lupin, who isn’t even old enough to be considered for the potion, looks positively  ** robust ** in comparison to his older self. 

“Can I help you?” It’s almost amazing that her voice is as crisp as it is, because Hermione is shaking. She knows when. It’s more important than ever now, to build a foundation that was solid for her house of cards. What a terrifying thought. 

“Ah, well, you did blow into our compartment yesterday,” one begins in a slow posh drawl. Sirius, her eyes find him in a moment. She appeared in their compartment. Bugger.  _ Damn it _ . This would be tricky, now, to avoid them, to avoid…

There is no avoiding change. She’s changed things already just by showing up in their compartment. Anything they might have done on the train, they didn’t, and the ripples of that are now are what she has to deal with. If she can deal with them. Dumbledore couldn’t know, he may be a good man, but Hermione has her reservations about giving him information of a time that may or may not become pertinent. If she told him about the prophecy, there was a chance she could set something even worse in motion. She could seal the Potte rs fates before they were even the Potters! 

“I didn’t mean to cause alarm. I – I don’t remember much about what went on. I just – m-my brother’s elf and my brothers.” Yes. Make a family that was dead. Muggle borns, yes muggleborns, the lot.  Muggleborns  slip under the radar.  Perhaps she could tell them the truth in time.  But, so f ew people care about the muggles. But, records. She needs records. Needs an ally here that will help her fabricate a past. 

“I don’t think your house-elf survived.” Remus murmurs, looking pale and drawn. “Your legs were covered in blood. Your side.” 

An unintended whimper breaks from Hermione’s lips. He’d died for her. That quirky little elf – gone. Her hands fist in the blankets and her eyes drop, it’s a conscious decision to widen her eyes to try and keep from crying. “Oh.” 

“Blimey, Remus. Just tell the girl her entire world is gone. Her elf was the last connection –“ 

“Please, don’t fight.” Her voice is steady, if small. She loathes that she sounds small, but it’s hard to sound completely together. It’s settling in still. “Thank you, for the quick actions you took to help me. I assume you did take some action, else you wouldn’t all be here, looking pale and expectant.” 

Her eyes flit over them again, settling on Peter, who she hadn’t even noticed the first time around. He is at the end of her bed, watching her almost…eagerly. Where the others are somber, concerned, and curious – he is void of that. Oh, he is properly somber, the facial features, that is, are arranged properly to convey worry, but the eyes. Those pale, watery blue eyes, are too bright, are too focused. It makes her uncomfortable, extremely uncomfortable, and she shifts up the bed a bit, away from him, into the orbits of the other three teens. 

“Sorry, Poppet. We just feel a bit – like you’re ours.” James shrugs, the ghost of an arrogant smirk on his face. It’s a little odd to see. As if Harry and Draco Malfoy had been merged together. Hermione does  _ not _ like it. 

“Yours?” Her brows draw together, lips pulling into a line. Her eyes sweep the gathered foursome. “You feel you have some… obligation to me? That I perhaps owe you?” 

“No. No, nothing like that, you aren’t beholden to us. But – you are new, Miss eh. Miss.” 

Her mine races for a moment. What surname? She cannot be Granger here, it would cause problems for herself when it came time for her to be born – if she was born, if she stayed here that long. If, if, if. Her father’s mother had been German, her mother’s father French, her mother’s mother,  _ Nigerian, _ specifically British Cameroonian. For the first time in her life, and very likely the last, Hermione is glad of the English colonization of Africa. 

“Hermione Eze,” she supplies after settling on it. Could she contact her grandmother, perhaps her great grandmother, as a long-lost cousin? DNA would be on her side, familial resemblance in the most obvious of ways, and the mind would do the rest . No one would send to Uagadou to look for school records nor any of the myriad of other smaller schools. She isn’t particularly gifted in self-Transfiguration, and no one has taught her much in the way of Alchemy, but she can learn the theory at least, on her own time, and Astronomy – well, a little more self-teaching and she could pass as having gone to a satellite and more European influenced school. She’s not adept enough in wandless magic to pass off as a proper African taught witch. 

“Eze?” Remus rolls the name in his mouth, James and Sirius do the same. “That isn’t an English surname.” 

“No, it’s not,” she smiles blandly. “British Cameroons, I’m afraid.” 

“That’s brilliant, I’ve never met a Witch or Wizard not taught at Hogwarts. Did you go to a proper school or did you get taught at home? By a –“

“If the next word from your mouth is Sooth Sayer, Bushman, or anything else  _ stereotypical _ , I will be forced to hex you half to oblivion.” 

“Sorry.” James looked embarrassed, color high on his cheeks and his eyes averting from hers. “I didn’t mean to be –“

“Racist? No, I imagine you didn’t.” Hermione doesn’t miss the way Remus flinches and Sirius goggles at her. She’s always been direct, and the 70s are  ** not ** the 90s. She isn’t about to let someone make a stupid comment, not even James. Especially not James. 

“As it happens, I was not. My brothers and I went to a small satellite school, curriculum based on Uagadou’s. Their system is a little different than the one here, as I’m led to believe. I’ve read  _ Hogwarts, _ _ a History _ many times during my breaks from school. And, well, it’s not hard to get a subscription to the Daily Prophet, once I learned I was a witch, I had to know everything I could. I didn’t want to overstep or be whatever stereotype those of you born into the world might have about those of us not. That, and I am a voracious scholar.” 

“Well, you’ll make fast friends with M- Remus, here. He’s all books, little play.” Sirius sighs, his interest in this enigma of a young woman flickering. Bookish girls were not often interested in quick romps in his or her bed, nor in broom closets. Not only that, now that they’ve got her talking, Sirius can sense she’s more responsible than anyone in their year – even Evans. Evans who Eze will likely be best friends with if the girl stays here. 

“You asked if you were at Hogwarts, in the compartment.” Hermione startles and settles at the question, shrugging her shoulders. 

“We weren’t yet at the portkey point, and Hogwarts is supposed to be the safest place in Wizarding Britain. Albus Dumbledore is one of the most known and lauded Wizards alive. If you were under attack, student here or not, where would you ask to be taken for your own safety?” 

“That makes sense.” Remus blinks, slightly awed by the girl, looking at his friends. 

“Not many could be so level headed. I know I wouldn’t be,” James is fascinated by this girl. She fought  _ Death Eaters _ and survived. Lost her family, but still. That’s – beyond what he assumes himself capable. 

“My priority is my family. I …” 

“Family is family, here or passed.” The whispered remark is not missed, and the heaviness of the room becomes far too much for Hermione. She clears her throat and scoots up a bit more against the headboard of the bed. 

“Enough about me. I don’t know who you are, aside from Remus here, who you seem to think I will be fast friends with. Who are the rest of you?” 

“Black, Sirius Black.” The teen in question sends her a roguish smirk and wink. All it does is make Hermione chuckle, covering her mouth to try and hide it. James, ploughs a head, seeing the tell-tale signs of Sirius’ ego being bruised. 

“I’m James Potter, at your service.” He bows slightly, smiling kindly. That look suits him far better than that arrogance she’d seen before. 

“Remus Lupin,” the shy werewolf gives her a ghost of a smile and it’s ridiculously hard not to smile warmly, familiarly back at her once favorite teacher. It’s harder to reconcile his youth with the man who taught her Harry how to produce a  patronus just three years ago…

“Peter Pettigrew, and it’s good to see you awake, Hermione Eze.” 

Circe, but Peter makes her skin crawl. Hermione flashes a smile at him none the less, nodding her head. So now she knew their names. Good. No slips to worry about so far. She needs to get things settled, lock away the memories, live until she was returned to her own time or the war was upon them. This is too big for her alone. 

“It’s nice to meet all of you. I do, truly, appreciate what you did for me on the train.” 

“Will you be going to Cameroon or –“

“I have to inform my family, what’s left of it,  but, I don’t know that I can go back. I also don’t know that I can stay here, I have no formal school records, I doubt I’m on the Ministry’s radar or even their birth records. I don’t know if the owls got to the Governors Board or whomever it is that approves transfers for myself and brothers…” She shrugs helplessly. “I have to speak with my family.” 

“Well,” Sirius draws a breath, looking at the drooping faces of Remus and James before settling his gaze back on Hermione. “I for one, would be very pleased to see you grace the halls of this fine institute. We could use some new blood around here.” 

“With a welcome like that, how can I not strive to stay?” She laughs and makes shooing motions at the lot of them. 

“I’m sure you’ve got classes, and I desperately need to use the  loo , so off with you. If you’d be so kind as to call Madam Pomfrey for me?” Her request is bald, bald enough the boys blanche before pink en ing and heading off hastily, calling for the Medi-Witch on the way out. Now, she needed to do some writing and get some sort of background settled for herself before figuring out a way to get money and then a new wand. Then she could deal with her memories and settle into Hogwarts. It was the only way she’d survive here and not tear time apart. 

It had taken a week to get to a proper muggle post office to send off a letter for her extended family without alerting anyone to what she was doing. It took just two days for an  _ Osprey _ to return with a letter from her long-lost  _ grandfather _ . Not a great-grandparent, oh no, Hermione’s ripples were already changing things it would seem.  She came not from a long line of muggles squibs, but a magical family that had produced a  single  squib in the early twentieth century. What boggled her mind, was the man had already had a family, lost the eldest daughter, the son moving to England to start a family  -as a muggle rather than a Squib in the magical world . Her family history was wrong now. 

How could she be born? How could the Granger family ever merge with the Eze and produce her? She’d killed herself. Except – she was still here. Her head was murdering her, trying to figure out how this could happen, as she read the letter. 

Her grandfather was about  sixty and rejoiced at the notion of a granddaughter hidden from him. It checked out by his math, somehow, someway, a fate making the timing seem plausible. Apparently the eldest had been married off at 17 and gone to manage her husband ’ s house. Her husband was less than a stellar man from this description, and if the daughter had been pregnant – her father was confident she would have had the child in secret or simply faked the child’s death. 

He welcomed her back to the  f amily, lamented her documentation was gone, but would be happy to come collect her and have the goblins verify her identity. Her mind swam. This could go so wrong. Or it could go very, very right. Going to the former British Cameroons would afford her distance, and perhaps the ripples would stay themselves. Perhaps she wouldn’t ruin everything. 

Her hands press to her face, the parchment crinkling against her skin. How was this possible, how did it make any sort of logical sense? Or was this some sort of timeline self-correction? She’d been ripped accidentally from her time, placed here, and in place long enough for time to correct itself. That was if you looked at time as a flexible, malleable, instinctual, or sentient construct. It was a theory applied by some of the more experimental scholars on the subject of time, as she’d read in her third year while desperately hoping she’d not killed someone saving Sirius and Buckbeak. In fact, some applied that idea to magic. That it wasn’t simply just within them, but organic, infused into every part of the world and that was how witches and wizards could manipulate reality at all. 

“You look quite serious for it being just half seven in the morning, Eze.” Whiskey and caramel eyes appear from behind hands and parchment to settle on one of the Marauders. It seemed it had cycled back to James today. One of them always visited her in the morning, on pretense that she needed real food rather than hospital rations. True to form, James had a small try with a bowl from which steam curled, and several smaller bowls around it, a glass of pumpkin juice and cup of tea accompanying the rest. 

“I am rather serious every day of my life, so I must be looking quite dour today,” the quip rolls from her tongue and it must amuse him, because the Potter scion grins, setting the tray astride her lap after approaching. Porridge, fruits, a little bit of brown sugar and milk. How they had come by this knowledge of her favorite breakfast was beyond the petite witch. 

“You look lovely, Princess, you always look lovely, especially now the bruising staring to disappear.” He reaches out, tugging on one of her curls in a near absent minded gesture. It’s been two days since he’d done it the first time, the tug on her curl. This is the first time he’s attempted a nickname, though. 

“Princess? Really?” Her hands lift and start to fix her breakfast, eyes darting to his after a silent moment. There’s a sparkle in those bespectacled hazel eyes. 

“Hermione was the daughter of Menelaus and Helen of Troy, there was also a woman called Hermione named in  _ The Winter’s Tale _ as Leontes’ wife. I haven’t read the play, because it’s Remus’ turn with the book, but Princess seems fitting. “

“How so? Am I so spoiled that it simply oozes from my very skin?” 

“No! Of course not,” he is hasty to correct her presumption she notes, smiling secretively to herself, taking more pleasure than she should in that. “Princesses become Queens, leaders. Just think of the Muggle Queen, she was a Princess once.” 

“And you think I’ll be like the muggle Queen?” 

“You care for people, I’ve heard about your talks with Remus, he won’t stop talking about them, honestly. You’ve got suspicions about the mistreatment of House-Elves, you want Werewolves to have the same liberties as the majority of Wizards. You think blood purity is a bunch of rubbish, a convenient way to enact discriminatory practices…” He ticks off things on his fingers, looking off into the distance  before pinning her in place with an intense look. “I think we’re going to see you go places, Hermione. You’re going to shock the world. I think I’m going to look forward to seeing it.” 

“Two talks with Remus and you know all that?” She knows her mouth must be open in an unflattering manner, but it’s hard to not be flabbergast at the boy’s measure of her. 

“Remus has been talking to you three times a day each time it’s his turn to come bring your tray.” James laughs, hands running through his tousled hair. If Hermione didn’t know better, she’d say there was a bit of curl to those near black locks. “You’ve got Sirius looking at the bookish girls, you know. Not sure what you’ve said to  _ him _ but it impressed him. Sirius isn’t easy to impress.” 

“Such an accomplishment, I best write to the board of the Order of Merlin.” Her eyes roll, recalling the talks, if one could characterize them that way, with Sirius. He’d been the one to talk about the houses of Hogwarts on the very first day he brought her breakfast. She’d made him late for his first class, arguing that what amounted to a dormitory could not, definitively, determine a person’s predilection to practice dark or light magic. Further it didn’t or better - it shouldn’t determine a person’s path in life, dark or light, famous or obscure. Merlin didn’t have a bloody house and he was the most famous wizard of them all – one of the ones who compromised his morals when it was required of him to do so, too. 

“You should. They may just hand you one of the second-class medals for it.” He smiles when she laughs, feeling like nothing bad could happen for the day now. Which was a rather interesting feeling, new to him if he’s being completely honest. Girls did not inspire that sort of thing in him. Lily didn’t give him the time of day, and before her he held few people in high enough regard for such a thing to happen. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hermione replies dryly, sprinkling sugar into the fruit loaded porridge. “Go to class, James. I’ll see you at lunch.” 

He salutes her jauntily and teasingly gives an almost formal military like affirmative before heading out. It reminds her so much of Harry that her eyes shine and her smile faulters. She misses him. She misses Harry terribly. With his silliness and decidedly somber nature. Even his quick temper is something she misses. 

She’ll see him again. Be it getting back to her own time or – gods the far more likely option– living to see him  _ born _ . Hermione doesn’t need to be told how Time Travel works. Not the standard and certainly not  _ this _ . You could look at it a number of ways, she reasoned. This could prove the Ministry correct, change things and irrevocably damage the timeline. Or it could be a little more  _ timey-wimey _ influx until set events. She can think of several things that could be possible set points in time. IT could be a loop, a never-ending loop. She was always meant to come back here, and thus she will always come back here. 

Her face falls and she  pokes at her food with her spoon, shoveling in a bite as she thinks in a mechanical manner. Just days ago, she’d been intent on forgetting everything she knew to keep it from the wrong people. Logically if the Dark Lord knew of the prophecy he would fixate on couples. Everyone in the Order would be up for grabs so to speak. Molly and Arthur could be his targets rather than Lily and James or Frank and Alice. Orphaning seven children in one go is too much, orphaning  _ two _ is too much. 

No, she can’t keep this information in her head and hope to help thwart the evil snake at this point. Too much of a liability. The memories need to go under lock and charm, perhaps removed all together. Her lips thin and she idly thinks of their worst Professor. Oh, Umbridge was a toad, but Lockhart? Lockhart  was a sham and could have killed someone. He had a penchant for memory charms, it had landed him in the spell damage ward. 

Buggery. 

She needs the library and to avoid as many people possible until she can get her plan underway. Her eyes fall to her letter, folded carefully on her lap, under the tray James had brought her. Or… she could allow herself to be absorbed into the Eze family and  _ then _ wheedle her way back into Hogwarts. Yes. Yes!

“Madame  Pompfrey , do you have a bit of parchment I might use, and a quill I could borrow?” She would go to Nigeria, she would live with her family, and she’d come back, for the Marauders, for James and Lily,  _ for Harry _ . 

“Ah, boys, good of you to come so quickly.” Albus Dumbledore was a patient sort of man, he’d learned from a volatile youth that anger got you  no where but pain. He’d learned love could make you blind to the most awful of things. But he knew loyalty was paramount of all feelings, even love. Bred from one the other was stronger. He can see the loyalty already in three of the  boys present, the shadow of it in the fourth where it concerned the mysterious Eze girl. 

“Of course, professor, can’t keep you waiting. Are we here for a commendation? That last prank was marvelous if we do say so ourselves –“

“Absolutely my dear Padfoot. It was brilliant, well thought out, carefully executed,” 

“Non-lethal,” Remus mutters, eyeing the other two carefully. Ah, so there was a bit of a sticking point over last  years unpleasantness. The Headmaster watches with interest as the Black heir pales, and James becomes somber. 

“Nothing so grandiose, I’m afraid. I wanted to inform all of you that Miss. Eze will be being collected by her guardian this afternoon. She intends to finish recuperating in the care of her family but has voiced a desire to come back to school afterward. She’s asked for the syllabi from all the classes she hopes to take after completing the English O.W.L.s sometime approaching the New Year. Fascinating girl, isn’t she?” 

“She’s… leaving?” It’s surprising to the Headmaster how gutted they all look. None more than James and Remus. He hadn’t thought the ties of friendship could be so quickly bound between the curly haired witch and Marauders, however, it comes as a pleasant surprise. There is something about here, something that says she is key to future events, and he would much rather that key be within an arm’s reach than half way across the planet. 

“Yes. Her grief is fresh, and the young witch is very aware of herself. She needs time to come to terms with the loss of her brothers and wishes to do that away from the public eye. However, she’s extended the offer to each of you to write to her. She expressed that a friendship had been building and she’d be  quite , in her words, put out if you all forgot about her.” 

“ But, she’s leaving. I thought all her family was here.” Sirius wasn’t a person who embraced change easily. The girl falling into their carriage, being interesting, that was a minor thing, the war he knew was coming – relatively minor again, after all he’s known his family as dark for ages. Bloody mad the lot, but  he doesn’t enjoy the thought of Hermione just up and disappearing. There’s too much to her that he doesn’t know yet, and something screams at him for her to stay. Stay so she can be safe. Safe and protected. She looked at him with a recognition that made him warm, sort of like the days when Reggie wasn’t a right little arse-kisser and they were still thick as thieves. He isn’t eager to lose that. 

“She has, in fact, a grandfather . Her  grandfather is collecting her, and returning with her to the Cameroons, as I stated  earli -“

“The blood y Cameroons?!” Remus sounds strangled, his accent thicker than usual, eyes flashing with his distress. “She’s going to Africa! She was just attacked, in broad daylight, and you’re sending her to the –“

“To her family, Mr. Lupin. She’ll be safe there. African witches and wizards are some of the most formidable on the planet, their magic is passed down generation to generation in ways similar and  all together different than it is in pureblood families here. Think of the native magical tribes in the Americas – their land is steeped in magic,”

“And so is ours! We’ve the largest magical site in Europe on this island – two if you count Hogwarts!” 

“Gentlemen,” the Headmaster’s eyes lose a bit of twinkle as he finds the end of his patience. Was he glad the Marauders felt the girl should stay? Of course. She could be a powerful player in the years to come in the war that was all but on their doorstep. However, her intentions had been made clear, and he had no recourse but to allow the girl into the care of her guardian. His hands were tied, in a week they could find no trace of an Eze family, no birth records outside some naturalization paperwork filed on the muggle side of the world and that had been well before the girl would have been born. 

“Hermione’s family wishes her to fully recuperate in peace, and she no doubt wishes to be with those she knows as kin. Family is perhaps the prime example of safety – or should be. She intends to return, take that to heart, keep your friendships strong by writing to her. I will say no more on the matter other than you are allowed to see her, and for the language and attitude presented, I have no choice but to take five points from you each in punishment. Now, she’s to leave in ten minutes, and her grandfather is at the entrance of the Castle. Make haste if you wish to tender your goodbyes in person.”

James, Sirius, and Remus take off, their shoes sounding on the flagstones of the hall. It’s a welcome sight for the elder Wizard. For a variety of reasons, but most because of the notion such a friendship had been created in just a handful of days. 

Hermione’s dress had been repaired, Dobby’s blood removed, the tear in the side fixed, it was as if the train attack had never happened. She stood in it near the Great Hall, watching students wander to and fro, chewing at her lip. Her great-grandfather should be here soon, and then – well, she’d do her best to come back here. However, it was essential she leave, she had to become established here. She had to be  _ real _ here. Circe knows that if she didn’t go to these lengths someone would find her out and all hell would break loose. 

No. She was leaving. She’d come back. She’d do what she could to rectify the torments of the past. The rules – the ones she’d been taught, were specific. Terrible things happened to the people who meddled, but – Hermione reasoned nervously – she didn’t intend to be sent back, she hadn’t used a time turner, a spell, a draught, anything. This was an accident. She’d already changed things. She was still here, so  she’d keep changing little things, insignificant seeming things, and hope the repercussions weren’t tremendous. 

“Hermione!”

“Oh, thank Merlin you’re still here.”

“Of course, she’s still here, Moony.”

“Boys,” she blinks, watching them come to a skidding halt in front of her with wide eyes. “What –“

“You were just going to leave us!” James spits out with a frown, making the curly witch wince. “That’s right rude, that is, Princess.” 

“Would you even have written if Dumbledore hadn’t told us you were gone?” Sirius’ eyes are hard, hurt shining if you knew where to look. 

Remus said nothing, just stared at her, figuring the other two had said it all for the moment. He watches as Hermione swallows, looking like she’d love to melt into the stones of the castle or suddenly become invisible. She chews at her lip and her shoe kicks gentle at the stones. 

“It’s not like that, you know. I’m not good at this – the good byes, the see you  laters . I always end up getting teary and I hate it.”

“Too bad. Even if it’s just for a month or two, we want to know. Merlin , what if you never come –“

“I’m coming back – Remus Lupin!” The fierce light in her eyes brings him up short, but not so short he doesn’t catch on to the fear. It’s a light scent on the air, muddied by her curiosity and mild distress. She was worried. 

“But what if you don’t. What if you get home, to the Cameroons, and go back to classes and forget all about Hogwarts? What if Dumbledore hadn’t told us you were going and wanted us to write, eh? What –“

“What ifs aren’t facts!” Her voice has risen in pitch and her eyes flash. “I  _ am _ leaving, but I  _ will _ write to you all. You saved me, you kept visiting me this last week and a bit. I won’t repay that with rudeness. I rather hope we’ve become something like friends –  _ when _ I come back, it would be nice to have some friends.” 

“Princess, you’re stuck with us now. Were the moment you blasted into our carriage. Mysterious girl like you? All quiet and books how could the Marauders pass you aside?” James is trying for funny and all it does is make the girl shake her head, fondness in her face coupled with a distinct grief. 

“I’m coming back, before All Saints day if I can manage it, and if not, well, before the  Hols are on us, I swear it.” 

“Fine, Eze, go and hide while you heal up, which you could do  _ just fine _ here, see if we remember you when you get back.” Sirius huffs, the cutting edge of his voice making Hermione blink before tilting her head to look at him, opening her mouth but cut off before she can say a word.

“You English wouldn’t know a healthy emotional response if it hit your bottom.” The deep rich voice startles the short witch, and she’s twisted, reaching for a wand that isn’t there, to face a man whose face is familiar – but not that familiar. Her mother’s nose, the crinkling of her eyes, shape of the mouth, it’s there in this stranger. 

“Good instincts, those four would be easy bait if I weren’t who I am.” His lips pull into a friendly smile, and Hermione relaxes incrementally. “You must be my Hermione. You look just like my Kebe, those big eyes of hers, it’s good to see her again.” 

“Grandfather –“ Hermione’s voice wavers, and his chuckle is encouraging. 

“ Mmhm , that I am,  **_ Agboghobia _ ** . You have some friends who seem heartbroken you’re coming home.” Dark, sharp eyes settle on the four young Wizards who shuffle under his gaze. Three seem embarrassed, and one, one is quite hard to read.

“They helped me on the train, and we’ve become something of friends. They can’t seem to believe I’ll be coming back.” Hermione doesn’t see how her Grandfather’s eyes flash to her in something approaching disbelief, but the Marauders see it, and their fears are confirmed. He didn’t want her to come back to Hogwarts. 

“We will talk about that once our Medi-Witch says you are fit for schooling. As I recall we have much to do,  **_ Agboghobia, _ ** before the day is done, and you are still weak, grey around the eyes and mouth. Best not keep the bank Goblins waiting, eh?” 

“Of course.” Hermione doesn’t like the sound of “we will talk about that later”. It makes her worry. Remus and Sirius are the only touch stones she has to the life before that moment on the train. While it might be safer if she stayed in Niger – eh, the British Cameroons with her formerly matrilineal family – she doesn’t want to be away from the Marauders either.  But, she’s set the ball in motion now, and she can’t backpedal much as she wants to. 

There is too much riding on her obscurity to do anything else. So, the small curly haired witch turns and launches herself at the Marauders like she had been prone to do with Harry and Ron. She gets James and Sirius first, pulling them close and squeezing tight. It takes a moment before James reciprocates and when she lets go to grab Remus is when Sirius hugs her so fiercely that it’s almost painful. There is the Sirius she knows, and it breaks her heart a little bit to know a piece of him came before Azkaban. But she untangles herself and grabs Remus and Peter, though Peter worms himself away within a breath or two, leaving her with the lanky boy wrapped around her. 

“Come back, Hermione. And you best write, or we’ll be sending something truly terrible in an owl to you.” 

“I’m coming back, Remus. I’m coming back.” She is suddenly tired and emotional, and tears sting at her eyes so she squeezes once more before thrusting herself away from them, head ducked so her cloud of hair hides the shining of her eyes. 

“We – We better get going, Grandfather.” 

“Yes, come little Hermione, we’ll set you to rights in a quick moment.” His hand takes hers, tucking it into the crook of his arm as he turns them toward the entrance of the school where a carriage waits for  them. Hermione takes one last look back at the four boys watching her before she resolutely stares ahead at the carriage. 

The four boys, only two of which had been alive by the time she’d come here, stand and watch the little witch guided away from them by a man much taller than her. They could see similarities. The hair, certainly. While the  grandfather’s was white, it had a cloud like quality to it, and the way they walk was similar as well. 

“It feels like we’re never going to see her again,” Sirius mutters, looking like he’d rather go face Walburga than have that be true. 

“Pads, she said she was going to come back,” James replies, not looking away from her retreating figure. “I –“

“She was scared,” Remus butts in, a lump in his throat. “She was worried she wasn’t going to come back.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione had been to France with her parents and thought it breathtaking. Looking back, France was beautiful, the architecture and the color schemes familiar, but it wasn’t quite as awe inspiring as the magical town she was standing in after two international portkeys and an apparition hop. England and France were all docile colors and quaint homes that all stood in similar builds with their own little identifying features to set them apart just enough. France was a little bolder than England but not by much in her estimation. England was Milk tea, and France slightly darker. 

She found that the lands of British Nigeria and British Cameroon to be anything but boring. She saw the rise of a city in the distance from where their portkey had landed. Now, this town, it was a mixture of magical and nonmagical, but it was bright, it was full of life. It seemed everyone knew each other. She recognized two different languages being spoken, and it seemed to identify magical and nonmagical. Her father keeps her at his side, his hand on her shoulder as she takes in everything with the awe of a girl much younger than herself. 

“We need to do two things today,  **_ Agboghobia _ ** **_.  _ ** The bank will confirm our familial connection, and the local ministry officials will validate  it, so the records will be properly updated, created, or requested from the British Ministry as needed.” His accent is light, and Hermione finds it quite soothing. His words are crisp and  clear, and his demeanor is straightforward. There seems to be no secrets for her to worry about at this juncture, though she worries seriously about her own. 

“The bank, Grandfather? Is it a part of Gringotts?” Her question is met with laughter and he nods to an imposing façade looming just a few meters from them. 

“ ọlaedo awa ụlọ akụ , came before Gringotts, as you will learn later, when we set you up with proper tutors while you continue to recover from your ordeal. “ 

“The meaning of the name?” Her face is reddening as she asks, Akuchi noting his granddaughter doesn’t like to find there are things she doesn’t know. A good sign, she will be an excellent student, and one day, an even better fit for the tribe. 

“It means Little Gold Bank. The name has been updated in the last century, it was originally called the Gold Repository. But when the English came, it was confusing and there was a bit of a, mm, an altercation as you would call it.” 

He leads her into the imposing building and Hermione can’t help but notice the dress shops next door haven’t got that magical feeling to them. Was this town integrated? Magical and Nonmagical living together in harmony? What about the Statute? Her mind is whirling with questions enough her eyes and brain don’t quite communicate what she’s seeing for a moment. When things click into place, Hermione can’t stop a small gasp from leaving her. 

Ọlaedo _ glittered _ inside. While the front façade was imposing and even demure by comparison, it still fit in with the local architecture. She could feel the wards settling around her, pressing gently at her magic to gauge her intent. It was amazing. She has so many questions. She needs all the books she can get about this place, about the magic that seemingly permeates the air and yet disappears entirely when one isn’t paying attention. 

“You look as if you are seeing the sky for the first time,” Akuchi laughs gently, hand dropping to her elbow giving her a gentle tug forward. 

“ I imagine it would feel similarly,” she whispers back to him, eyeing what was surely an entirely diamond sculpture in one corner of the atrium. “Gringotts is –“

“ Ragnu k the fifth’ s little experiment with the English is quite quaint, isn’t it?” A deceptively soft voice breaks their momentary conversation and Hermione startles, whirling around as she had when Akuchi first spoke, her hand reaching for a wand that was not available to her.  She comes face to face with a Goblin the likes of which she’s never seen. The Goblins of Gringotts were all male, but this Goblin was clearly of the feminine persuasion, and much taller than her own account manager had been. Her words were thick with an accent that was in no way, shape, or form similar to Akuchi’s but Hermione followed it easily and found it to be a bit enchanting. 

“ Ọlaedo awa is far older than your Gringotts. We are the better choice of magical wealth repository.” The goblin sniffs daintily and the darker curly haired witch bites her lip to keep from giggling. “But that is neither here, nor there, Akuchi Eze, you’re early, a commendable trait. I take it this slip of a witch is the supposed granddaughter.” 

“Astute as always, Madam. It was easier to collect Hermione than originally anticipated.” 

“Hermione?” Black eyes settle on the witch in question, washing over her curiously for a moment. “After that scamp of a Wizard’s play?” 

“It would seem so.” 

The piercing eyes settle on Hermione again, and this time the young witch feels distinctly judged. She bristles, her hair crackling with her magic, if weakly, taking offense to some apparent slight against her mother’s chosen name for her. Oddly this, Madam, must find it somehow amusing, or even agreeable, for her thin lips pull into a wide smile and she turns abruptly, walking away. Akuchi urges Hermione forward, and they are led from the Atrium, through the bank proper to a private room. A room that glittered just as the atrium had. 

Madam has settled behind a desk with gold adornments the wood white and looking almost petrified. A thin, long fingered hand  is  offered, and Hermione hesitates. What exactly was going on? 

“Your hand, girl.” Spindly fingers beckon and Hermione gulps before offering her hand. She remembered this, the goblins at Gringotts had tested her for magical lineage in the event there was some inheritance waiting for her. What if she was wrong? What if this was the wrong family? What if everything she’d done the last week had been for naught and now she was stranded in Western bloody –

“Ow!” It’s the shock of the cut that has her reacting more than actual pain, and the Goblin seemingly knows it. 

“Oh hush, girl, it is but a small cut.” Madam flicks her blade wielding hand in dismissal, keeping the witch’s hand steady as blood wells. They wait in silence until there is a small puddle formed, and then those spindly digits turn her hand, so the blood drops onto the parchment below. It takes only a moment before the parchment swallows up the offering, and a chart in blood red ink begins to take form, with Hermione’s name front and center at the top of the parchment. 

“ This one is one of Kebe’s, Akuchi. Eze blooded through and through. Strong magical potential, the chart is more detailed than anticipated. The lived up to family legacy before she passed.” 

Hermione blinks akin to an owl as Madam speaks and shifts so she might peer at the parchment paper. She almost jerks her hand away from the Goblin in shock. There in red and cream, lays what she had concocted as a  _ lie _ , but states as  _ magically truthful _ . 

** Hermione Adaeze Eze ** , born to Chika Eze ( furu efu ), September 19 th , 1959,  ** Henry & Ronald Eze ** born to Chika Eze ( furu efu ), August 1 st , 1960 – September 1 st , 1976.

She had no words and no way to make sense of what was happening. It was obvious, logically, time was correcting itself around her. She knew time travel was reported to be dangerous, for the traveler and time itself. What she wasn’t sure of is what happened to those who didn’t time travel purposefully. Was it this? Would she simply become a part of the timeline? Was it the multiverse theory at work? Had whatever magic that had drawn her here created an entirely new timeline? Was she  _ actually _ in the place of  ** this ** timeline’s Hermione? 

Her throat works to try and make a noise, something, anything, as she watches the parchment fill. Harry and Ron – her brothers, her mother, her mother’s  _ fifteen _ siblings that lead to Kebe Eze and Akuchi Adeyemi, the branch leads off of her grandmother’s name, listing siblings and parents and it keeps going and going and going until the parchment stops. Context tells her that  **_ furu efu _ ** must mean something similar to squib, but there are only a handful in the line, her mother included. 

It’s impossible. It has to be.

Black eyes stare at her hard, hard enough that Hermione looks up, hair crackling again. She nearly quails under the piercing quality of the look. It’s held for what feels like an eternity before her hand is released, spindly fingers flicking and the cut healing. The magic is – unfamiliar. It sings in an odd manner against Hermione’s skin. She’s opening her mouth to fire off a barrage of questions but the Goblin woman, who Hermione still can’t place in the hierarchy of management, speaks first. 

“All of the bequeathed assets that were in Chika’s name remain untouched, both from you and Kebe. Chika’s dowry  vault  is fully  intact and can easily be added to what will become Hermione’s. We at  Olaedo offer our assistance in her instruction.” 

“Dowry?!” Hermione feels the color drain from her face as she turns to look at her Grandfather, who laughs.

“Yes, of course. You are part of an old family, a good family, dowries are tradition, just like your English  N obles practice.”  If that tradition is a little different from  Englands , well, he can address that later.  He is  also quite  glad the inquisitive little witch didn’t pick up on the Madam’s last words. He inclines his head toward the Head Goblin, standing and tapping a finger to the parchment that has only just stopped filling itself. “Madam, my thanks. May I request two copies of this, one to bring to the Ministry officials and one for our records.” 

Madam huffs, flicking her stark white braid over a thin shoulder as her eyes roll. “The request is unnecessary, I will send a sealed copy ahead and yours will be delivered directly to the Eze family vault as is proper. Now, if that concludes your business, I will escort you to the door.”

“For today, certainly.”

Hermione feels unmoored as she leaves the bank, hand tucked around her grandfather’s arm. She’s a half-blood. Magic had run in her family’s blood for generations. It makes her feel a bit queasy. Her whole Hogwarts career, she’d worked to prove that her magic,  _ spontaneously manifested _ magic, was just as valid as magic fostered for hundreds upon hundreds of years. That she was just as magical as the children who were mired in family magic. 

And for what? All that effort – for what? Were there actually muggle-borns? Was the concept just a clever ploy created by so called purebloods to distance themselves from those they had deemed inferior? Her free hand comes to rub at her face, and an angry noise leaves her as the sun warms her skin again. A large hand settles over the one tucked against her Grandfather’s arm.

“What is the matter, Hermione?” 

What a loaded question. If she had the presence of mind to censor herself, she’d feel bad for the deluge she let out on Akuchi. At present, the young woman is overwhelmed and not sure how to compartmentalize everything, so she may digest it at an easy pace. 

“My life has been a lie, and those my brothers led.” It’s easy to think and describe Harry and Ron as her brothers. Here it’s truth. “For our entire lives, we were led to believe we didn’t fit into the muggle, nonmagical world. We were too different. When we went to school, it was the same. I thought my magic was  _ mine _ , not part of a legacy to uphold and honor, but something to build for those that came after me. Mother didn’t even – she never even let on!” 

“Peace,  _ Nwa _ , don’t fret so. You are turning ashen as I look upon you.” His hand strokes hers in a soothing manner, but Hermione’s caught up in her own personal hurricane. Half-blood. She’d always been magical, she was always going to be magical. Even if it was time simply swallowing her up, fixing itself and solidifying her presence here, she’d just lost a part of herself.

“You don’t understand, grandfather. You can’t! I was called a mud-“

“ ** Don’t ** !” Akuchi’s voice is sharp, and he stops them, looking at her with fire in his dark eyes. “Never again will you use that base English slur. You are not lesser, Hermione. You come from the Eze line, you know what this word means? Eze – it means  _ King _ , and your middle name, Adaeze? King’s daughter. You are a part of a long, proud line, a strong magical line. Our tribe was blessed at the beginning, our magic is in the dirt beneath our feet, and in the air that plays with our hair. You will  _ never _ be lesser than any of the creatures on this earth. I forbid you to spout such nonsense fed to you by purists whose only purpose in life is to raise themselves up through the demeaning of others.” 

Her mouth hangs open, shock painting her face as a kernel of adoration flares in her heart. There is a small part of her that wonders if he would say such a thing if she had truly been from a muggle line, but for now, Hermione shoves that aside. The facts were laid out. She was not from a magicless family, her mother wasn’t a muggle, and she was a part of a family, a house, a  _ tribe _ of magical people. She could learn about her family’s political history later, as well as personal doctrines. If nothing else, Hermione knows she will not lose her own principles in this place. 

Umber and white clay buildings surround them as she falls into contemplative silence, and Akuchi doesn’t start a new line of conversation. There are some stares, which she notices after a few moments,  disapproving with wrinkled noses for the most part. A few are filled with curiosity. She eyes her dress and belatedly remembers – this is not a current style. Her cheeks warm considerably and she  heaves a sigh. 

“Grandfather, would it be  a bother if I fetched a few dresses before you showed me the way home? I believe I am thoroughly out of style here.” 

Akuchi pauses, looking at the dress his granddaughter wears under the cloak she’d been given by the Headmaster of that English school. It is little more than a slip, and he sighs. He should have dealt with that first. He can’t possibly present her to the ministry officials in  _ that _ . 

“Yes, of course. I must be getting old, we should have dressed you appropriately before we began our duties for the day. Let’s find you something less English.” 

Hermione had the very distinct notion that her grandfather wasn’t enamored with the occupying power. Her feet find her lip as she files that feeling away, the worry once more rearing it’s head that she would not get back to Hogwarts at all. 


	5. Chapter 5

Princess -  September 19, 1976

You know, it’s been a few days. I’m frankly offended I haven’t had a slew of mail from you. After all I did! All the stimulating conversations provided, the food, not to mention the scenery – I think I deserve something, yeah?

Fun aside, Princess, it’s boring now that I don’t have you to slyly slide stimulating conversation into my days. Did you know that I actually spoke to Remus, at length, about the rights of ministry classed Dark Creatures just yesterday?  Of course, you didn’t – because you haven’t bleeding well written!

I know you must be exceptionally busy, your grandfather looked to be quite important, honestly. Still, it doesn’t excuse you from the rudeness of the lapse in your promise. 

Even so, I do genuinely hope you’re settling in well with your extended family. If they’re awful, we’ve got room at Godric’s Hollow. It’s a little cottage, described as quite quaint and cute by my mother. Had I been born a girl, it would have been one of my dower properties. Mum would probably let you move in there, as it wouldn’t do for you to live with two single Wizards not of your house in the home. Pureblood logic, am I right, or am I right?

Take care of yourself, Princess.   
Sincerely,

James F. Potter   
Scion of the Ancient house of Potter.

Hermione - September 20, 1976

James and Sirius rather miss you. Not to say that I don’t as well, but I am impressed with your ability to enchant those two.  Typically, they seemed to be utterly unenchantable. At least, James didn’t seem to be easily swayed. Sirius – well, that boy will be enchanted by most bits of fluff that flutter their eyes at him. 

Oh, that came out wrong. I’d erase it, but I’d still know I wrote it to begin with. I just meant, you aren’t the sort to leave a good impression on Sirius. He’s always been a bit at odds with girls who have backbones and more than a little bit of knowledge. 

Blimey, that sounds utterly horrible of me. I should stop trying to explain. 

I hope you’re doing all right, Hermione. Your injuries were extensive that day on the train, and I know you will be healing for a few weeks still. We worry, as we haven’t yet heard from you, and you did promise to write to us. I’ve started in on the years’ Transfiguration homework. I always have a touch of a hard time with it, so the extra time to revise will be well good. Not that James and Sirius do that. I don’t understand how we do what we do, and they still have stellar grades. 

It’s just wrong, it is. 

Here, I’ve enclosed a bar of Honeydukes for you from my personal stash. It always makes me feel better whenever I’ve been ill. Which, unfortunately, is quite often. Heal up, Miss Eze, and please write back to us. 

Sincerely – 

Remus Lupin

Eze – 

You know, you’re not endearing yourself to me by not writing. Breaking promises, already are you?

  * Sirius “Padfoot” Black, formerly of the Ancient and Noble house of Black.



Hermione sets aside her three bits of parchment onto the side table beside her divan. Her grandfather’s MediWitch had allowed her to exercise lightly and leave her bed on the condition she go no further than the drawing room of the house, and her exercise nothing more exerting than a brisk walk around the gardens. It was madness, but Hermione understood. 

Her injuries had been severe, the puncture at her hip had nicked a few organs, and the closeness of the attack to the fiasco at the Ministry had set back her healing a good few weeks. When the MediWitch saw he cursed car, she’d about had kittens, and promptly began a regime of potions to remove the lingering dark magic from Hermione’s body, cursing the lack of innovation and advancement in English Medicine the entire time. Hermione smiles wanly to think about it. Already her scar was diminishing, and it had been just a few days since the potion regime had been implemented. 

She felt oodles better than a whole summer relegated to bed had made her feel. Whatever oppressive darkness had been behind Dolohov’s curse was  receding , and she couldn’t be more thankful for it. Her eyes settle on her letters again, and she ponders how best to address them. It is dangerous for her to establish a deeper rapport with the  Marauders . Everything she knows about them could set off a chain of events that ended their lives far before their times. 

Then again, if she ascribed to the multiverse theory, her knowledge was useless. James was not yet married to Lily Evans, Peter had yet to betray his friends and be corrupted into a Death Eater, Sirius had moved in with the Potters already, but Remus hadn’t been outted as a werewolf yet.  Everything was in flux, as she knew it. She could do nothing, or everything to change the course of history as she knew it – because it had yet to be written. 

Her fingers pluck at the light blanket her grandfather’s elf had laid over her legs. She had a lot to learn, a lot to set in place before she could consider all of that seriously. James wasn’t wrong, either. She had promised them she would write. After all, she was thousands of miles away from the Marauders, what could she really change with letters? 

“ Nadi ,” She gently calls for the house elf, feeling awful for daring call one of them, even upon learning the difference between the bonds they could invoke with the gentle and fiercely loyal creatures. 

“Miss, what can I be doing for you?” 

“I’d like a quill, and some parchment please.” Hermione smiles at the small elf, resplendent in her tribal colors of purple and green. It’s an odd mixture, but she hasn’t yet been instructed on her family history  or really much of the African magical community history, so she can’t say whether it is appropriate or not just yet. 

“Yes Miss. Would you like something warm to drink, and maybe a snack to go with the writing things?” 

Hermione tilts her head, thinking about it. A snack would be lovely and a warm drink. “Yes please, something sweet to drink?” 

“Yes Miss.”  Nadi seems to approve of her choice if the eager way she disappears is any indication. Within a few minutes, Hermione has a lap desk, a quill and several sheets of parchment. Off to the side, a little table floated with a fragrant tea and some delightful cookies sat waiting for her.  Dipping her quill into deep violet ink, Hermione pens her first response to the boys. 

James & Remus - September 22, 1976

I’m sorry, firstly, for not writing to you sooner. It’s been quite a lot to take in, being here, properly that is. I never paid much attention to my surrounding whenever I came to school. I was far more interested in my work, you see, and my brothers getting into far too much trouble if I didn’t mind them. I was thoroughly committed to learning everything I could about wizarding society. 

I thought that if I managed it, the rest of the Wizarding World would stop looking down it’s nose at me and mine because we were just muggleborns. 

I’ve lost a piece of myself as I gain so many more. It’s put me into quite a mental state, as I’m sure you could imagine. Or perhaps you can’t. I never did figure out if you, either of you, that is, were half bloods or pure. Not that it truly matters in the long run of things – we all run red when cut. 

But. I just. 

Seven years of being called  lesser and derided by my peers within my school and here I am not at all lesser in any way that they can quantify! I can trace my mother’s family back to the  _ beginning _ of magic. I don’t know my father, apparently the ‘magically lost’ aren’t worth the paper to print their name on so I can’t say I could do the same for him. 

I can’t begin to explain how upsetting this is. I’ve got a  _ proper _ bloody dowry!  Access to a vault with the family jewels inside, diamonds bigger than my head that haven’t been cut in centuries because no one wanted to create new heirlooms! These are pieces passed from mother to daughter for ages past, and it wouldn’t be mine if not for the magic I can do! Papa explained that last night over dinner. I am quite appalled that Africa and England are not so different in that. It’s a travesty. However, it makes sense now, why Mother didn’t know about the  vault , or the wizarding world there in England. She was a squib, and England’s wizards have no use for them. 

While mother couldn’t inherit here, had she stated in her tribal lands, she would have still been a part of the magical community. The Statue is worded differently here, enforced without blind prejudice behind it. Those born without magic –  _ lost _ – are still part of the tribe, or their house, or both. They  are the  caretakers of the community, the librarians, the midwives, the  potioneers and similar. They are the custodians of the magical world – but a damn sight better treated than what they would be in England. 

Tell me something fun. Remus is at odds with transfiguration, apparently, but I find that rather had to believe. Our talks were quite fun, and  he is quite knowledgeable about most of the magic we’re taught in our education systems. So, Sir, I call shenanigans I think you’re looking for pity. You’ll find none here. Only commendation for taking into consideration what extra time to revise for finals will do for you. 

Has Quidditch started up yet? Are there new teams? I know that Quidditch is quite well loved there at Hogwarts. It is here, though to a far lesser extent, as is the muggle sport of football. The teams are phenomenal if you can believe it. Papa has brought me to a game already, part of my recovery and integration into society here. 

I am taking care to regain my strength. My magic is stronger now than it was prior to the attack.  I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact I am still without a wand, and thus my concentration has to be refined, and everything to do with the magical exhaustion I was suffering. Papa insists I be rid of my need for a wand by the year’s end. He was appalled at the gaps in my previous education as well. He’s devised an at – home course for me to fix the unfortunate circumstance It’s rigorous and very informative. 

So far, I am not allowed to do any practical work – as I am again recovering from magical exhaustion. Papa has, however, supplied me well with books he deems integral to closing the gaps in m knowledge and strengthening my theoretical understanding of magic. I have learned the theory behind changing my appearance and may have accidentally succeeded in changing my own hair color with surprising success. Though  m y eyebrows refused to match my  hair so it was not entirely a satisfactory venture. Nor was the lecture I received from Papa when he found me with white blonde hair. 

I love magic. Not for such frivolous uses as changing my hair, either. Papa plans to teach me the theory of spell creation and move into the advanced theory of spell creation before the end of the year so he might improve my self-transfiguration ability. I believe he means to have me begin Animagus training over the holidays. He did intimate that all magical folk of our tribe have had tremendous Animagus forms. As I am of age, he’s drilling me with the theory of apparition as well. Not more than I can handle, of course, he wants my basis  sound so I don’t  splinch myself the first time I put that theory into practice. 

I am learning my family’s native tongue, Igbo, and it is coming along rather nicely for having been here so few days. I wish I’d have learned it sooner. I wish mama had taught me anything of life here, or even just the stories that came from this region she grew up with. It would have been a great  comfort, and given me a touch stone to hold onto now. 

I’m afraid that my only touchstones now are you lot and my grandfather. What a sorry situation, isn’t it?

Keep  safe, and try not to get into too much trouble. The term has just started, after all. 

Sincerely,

Hermione Adaeze of house Eze   
First of her name   
daughter of the Chi gọziriagọzi Igbo tribe of Nigeria and the British Cameroons

P.s. Thank you, Remus, for the chocolate. It’s a lovely treat to have nibbles of and I do feel much better when I have a bit.

Black –

I’ve not broken any of my promises. I am writing now. I did have to settle, you know. It isn’t as if I was going to fall into life here at the snap of my fingers without any transition whatsoever. I don’t, or rather, didn’t know my extended family at all before now. For all I knew when I sent my letter, I could have come here and been shoved into a cupboard under the stairs. I haven’t been, before you worry. My bedroom is lovely, and no, you are not invited to see it. 

Do try not to get Mono, won’t you?

-Hermione of house Eze   
First of her name   
Daughter of the Chi gọziriagọzi Igbo tribe of Nigeria and the British Cameroons

“Oi, how is it I have to share a letter with his nibs, and you got one all of your own?” James sighs melodramatically as Remus plucks the parchment from his hand, seeing  it’s trajectory for Potter’s porridge. The wolf rolls his eyes at the show Potter is putting on, just grateful it isn’t a show for Lily. In fact, that’s something that’s been pleasantly absent of late. It makes him blink as the realization settles in, his gold flecked eyes seeking out the redhead who is blissfully unaware of the changes in the air. Perhaps he should send Hermione some more Honeydukes in thanks. 

Though, Remus isn’t sure it would look good to send a brick of the stuff wrapped up in parchment that read – thanks Hermione, for helping James recover from his childishness and releasing him from a frankly obsessive crush by arriving blood covered in our train compartment. No, he didn’t think that would go over well with the slight curly witch, nor would it go over at all with her far larger and formidable grandfather. The man had radiated magic, and Remus wasn’t keen to get on the man’s bad side. 

“Like you can complain,” Sirius  relipes gruffly, grey eyes flicking up from his reading. “Even if you’re sharing a letter, there has to be almost a full foot of parchment there. I’ve got a measly eight inches and perhaps ten lines here.” The wolf notices how put out Sirius actually is over that, but also notes the way the letter is carefully refolded and placed into one of his books rather than simply shoved into his school bag. 

James scoffs, and leans around his darker brother to look at Wormtail, brows furrowing when he finds the blonde to have nothing from Hermione. “You didn’t get anything?” 

In response, the pudgy blonde shrugs. “I haven’t written her yet. I don’t know what to say. We didn’t get on like you three did.” There is a lack of emotion on the topic that has Moony rearing to the fore, hackles raised for some reason. It’s got Remus’ nose scrunching, his eyes settling on the boy for a few long moments before returning to re-read the letter that James had been hogging before. 

“That’s all right, more attention for us,” Sirius crows, as if that note he’d received were something to be lauded now. It makes the werewolf snort, lips curling into a half smile. His friend was so fickle. 

“I think I’ll write her back after homework, you?” 

“Tomorrow maybe, tonight I can’t.” 

“Oh. Right. Hell, I almost forgot. You’re so chipper today.” 

Eze – 

Moony, that is to say, Remus, is falling ill again. He’ll probably be under the weather at least three days, as is pretty normal for him when he does get ill. Maybe send him a note to cheer the old boy up a bit. 

There’s a girl. 

  * Padfoot.



Princess -  October 1, 1976

Quidditch starts this week, the Captain is a terror of course, but it’s his last year, you see, and we’re heading for the seventh consecutive ( for him ) Quidditch cup this year. I think I told you I’m a chaser, didn’t I? Well, it’s me and Gid Prewitt with Black, Fabian Prewitt and one of the Weasleys as beaters. Some scrawny second year has taken over as Seeker and our Captain is the Keeper. He’s quite the tactician when it comes to broom work, let me tell you. I think he’s already been offered a spot with Puddlemere United. Lucky sod. 

The Halls of Hogwarts are today draped in yellow silk and daisy flowers, courtesy of yours truly and my band of brothers. It’s in honor of you, that dress you were wearing when we found you, yeah? If anyone touches it though, the flowers attack. 

Dead clever bit of spell work when into it to get them to do that. Hell, a bit of a sticking charm on the silk to keep Filch from taking to down until we feel you’ve been properly honored, too. 

I’ve got to run and grab some lunch. 

Cheers!

James

Remus – October 1, 1976

A little bird told me you weren’t well. I know these don’t look the best, but, then I made them, so they aren’t professional by any means. Papa helped a bit. Well, he procured for me what I needed and  lef me to my devices with  Nadi , that’s one of the house elves, supervising me. It’s the richest cocoa I’ve ever used! A little spicy, but brilliantly smooth. I hope it makes you feel better. You had better eat at least one of these, I battled and bartered with the Kobold for use of the stove to make these things! The elves only left me alone when I splattered chocolate on the ceiling. 

I forgot, after my last letter, which turned into a bit of a rant, about the way things are here. The architecture is beautiful now I’ve stopped and looked at it.  Buildings are rich and vibrant colors that you  aren’t prone to seeing in  Lost Muggle or even Wizarding England. The shops are all integrated, but the Lost never stumble into the wrong shop. The apothecaries have special licenses courtesy of the government to serve both Lost and  Wizardkin d . Potions that would adversely affect a lost person are spelled to look like harmless display jars, and they have a touch of a lost replant charm on them. It’s simply brilliant. 

My family is large. We’ve at least one potioneers, and many, many farmers. There are several mining branches, cadet branches Papa calls them, and they are quite well off. It’s a bit interesting, the way magical families work. I’ll get into it at length during another letter.

Be well,

Hermione

Padfoot –

Mission make our bookish one feel better is underway. As a gesture – a bit for you as well. Watch out, it’s got a bit of heat to it. 

  * Eze



James F. Potter –  October 4 ‘76

What in the world are you honoring me for?! I’m surprised you didn’t give all the elves socks and be done with it if you were out to honor me. Though, I’ve no idea what the Headmaster or the rest of the Staff would do if the elves all up and left. Perhaps they would have Kobolds move back into the kitchens. Did you know that there was a single family of Kobolds who controlled the Hogwarts kitchens from it’s founding to 1279?  Apparently that winter one of the Headmaster’s wives of the time poisoned the Kobolds living in the castle , effectively wiping out that clan. The Kobolds as a community refused to serve in the castle after that and now we’ve only got the elves. 

But I’m off track. 

I’m not entirely sure if I should be flattered or utterly disturbed you remember the dress I was wearing a month ago. The attacking flowers are a lovely addition, provided, of course, they don’t or no longer maim anyone. 

I’m sure your team is quite solid, if the Captain has been around a while as it sounds he has, and you’ve won the cup under him already I don’t see what he’s fussing about. I wish you the best of luck. I’d do something like wear a jersey or house scarf if I could, but it won’t snow for weeks yet, and I don’t fancy succumbing to heatstroke.

Papa has tested my magical knowledge and ability within an inch of exhaustion. He knows now exactly where the gaps are and what needs improvement and where we must start from scratch It’s daunting to be so rigorously questioned and watched as I perform spell after spell. I imagine it must be what Lost bootcamp must be like. I don’t envy them at all. It’s been the most magical period of my life thus far, and that is saying quite a lot. 

It’s very odd to think that it’s been a month since I lost Harry and Ron It’s strange to be doing these things without them. At times I find myself looking up and expecting them to be right there across from me, goofing off rather than reading the texts as we’re meant to. I’ve woken up several times calling for them, for Papa to come instead. I hate it. 

Harry would have loved to talk with you about flying, and a bit about Quidditch. He was a Seeker. But his real love was just flying. Ron, now he was a Quidditch nut. He’d have whipped the pants off you at Chess, too. Fantastic at charms the both of them, at least once you got them to sit still and learn the charm properly of course. 

I’m sorry. I miss them so much. I’ll write again later.

  * Hermione



A day after Hermione sent her letters to the trio, a great Barn owl arrived with a package for her. Inside was a familiar red and gold jersey with Potter emblazoned across the back. Upon further inspection, another with Black was also tucked into the box. 

Hermione cries for two days, thinking of her brothers and how much Harry would have loved to see his father’s jersey like this. 

Hermione - October 8, 1976

I read James’ letter as well as my own since he seemed quite out of sorts when he read it. I’m terribly sorry for your loss. We never really thought about just how much you’re trying to recover from. We only saw you, only had the chance to help you. I wish we’d had the chance to help your brothers as well. 

Please,  **_ Flodyn _ ** , don’t hide your grief from us, we’ll help you if we can.

I’ve enclosed a copy of the syllabus for charms,  transfiguration , history of magic, astronomy, ancient runs,  arithmancy , potions and care of magical creatures. I had to nick the latter two off James and Sirius, as I don’t take them. I hope it will help you keep up with what we’re working on as well as your Grandfather’s regime. I do hope to see you soon. It’s almost mid-October. Privately, though he’d die before he told you, Sirius was banking on you  being back here before All Hallows eve. James is holding fast to All Saints day. 

Have you heard from Peter yet? He said just last week he would  write, but mentioned that you and he didn’t get on when we were taking turns entertaining you. He’s a bit of an odd duck out with us, but a good chap. I think if you take the time, you’ll find you like him well enough. 

Now, that chocolate. What exactly do I have to do to convince you to make it for me every time I feel ill? Shall I send flowers, or perhaps books, or both – in thanks?

Yours –

Remus

Princess -  October 8, 1976

You sent Sirius Bloody Black and Remus Bleeding Lupin chocolate and I get none?! I’m hurt! I feel overlooked! I don’t think I shall write again. 

  * James



P.S. I don’t have any brothers myself, not proper blood brothers like you and you twin brothers. But if I were to lose Padfoot or Moony or Wormtail, I think that might come close and it’s a horrifying prospect. I’m sorry you’re hurting, sweets. Please, don’t wallow in your guilt. I don’t think they’d want that for you.

James - October 12, 1976

Here is your damned chocolate. You’re so spoiled it’s a wonder you haven’t gone rotten! Green is not a color that would look good on you, Potter. 

  * H



P.S. I wear the Jerseys to sleep, thank you for them. And Thank you for your words at the end of the last letter. 

Black -  October 12, 1976

You’ve been suspiciously quiet of late. Did I offend with the gesture?

  * H




	6. Chapter 6

Hermione was up at dawn for days with her new dueling tutor.  Her grandfather had been beyond livid when the MediWitch had detailed the magic layered into the curse along her torso, and what she’d endured on the train. It is actually quite amazing Hermione had lived, even she could readily admit that. She hadn’t expected Akuchi to react like this, however. A dueling tutor – for a daughter of what she is fast gathering to be a noble house? In England it wouldn’t be kosher. But the rules in England aren’t always followed here in Africa. Something she is pleased about., even if some of the rules that are universal chafe at her.

She’d been free and clear to begin her  practical education since the 20 th . It was a surprise that it took so long for her to recover, but she felt lighter than she had in ages now. Her magic came rushing to the fore whenever she called it and it was, in a word, amazing. 

Even so, she’s behind schedule. The letters from the Marauders  made her ever more aware. Hermione had thought she could and would go back to Hogwarts as fast as she could say  Wingardium Leviosa .  The truth of the matter – is that she needs to stay for the rest of the year. She could easily go back for her final year, but right now, her place was here. 

Her grandfather wanted her where he could see her, and here was still the matter of her memories of  her ‘proper’ time to deal with. She couldn’t get that taken care of in ten days, especially not  with Akuchi watching her like a hawk. Though, he knew about the dreams, and the distress they caused her. That could be the angle she needed to work to get sent to a mind healer. 

She flicks her hand to move her clothes. Some were quite European, and some were very African takes on the invading culture’s designs. She tended to favor the latter.  Not something she would have done in the 90s, but here, it felt much better to be in the bright patterned dresses than the love child fashions of Europe and the Americas. 

Her eyes settle on her writing desk, there are several letters she should read, but she can’t bring herself to brush off the questions of when she would return again.  She would never lie to the Marauders, but she also didn’t want to foster the idea she wasn’t coming back. The longer she was here in this time, the more she was convinced it was an alternate timeline created by  the specific circumstances provided during the attack. Which meant she could change things. She could save James,  and Sirius from Peter’s betrayal – if he even turned on them to begin with. He may not this time. 

“ Nwa  nwanyi Eze!”  One of her many tutors calls through her door and Hermione sighs. It sounded suspiciously like the crone who was to teach her deportment and the like. Today was to be her first lesson. The letters would have to wait until after the evening meal. 

Remus -  October 26, 1976

I’m sorry for the delay in correspondence. I was given the all clear from the family MediWitch, and that means my practical education has taken off like a runaway train. I am afraid I won’t be back for Samhain. I wanted to be, but there is much I have to do before I’m ready to return to England. 

As for Peter, I haven’t yet received a letter from him.  We didn’t really get on well, he’s telling the truth. We were a bit like oil and water, I felt. But, he is your friend, so I can’t imagine he’s all that bad in actuality. 

Please, don’t feel bad you didn’t have a  chance to help my brothers. It’s my fault. I should have protected them better. I could have studied  harder or demanded more dueling lessons – I knew what was coming for us if we kept on as we were.  That blame rests solidly upon my shoulders and no one else’s. I just miss them terribly. It was us against the world for as long as I can remember. It’s hard to adjust to it being just me against the world now. 

Thank you so much for the syllabi, they’re quite useful. Papa took them, of course, to see how each  compare to the local schools. Between you and I, I am worried that he will want to enroll me there rather than at Hogwarts. It seems up to snuff, he’s letting me use it to catch up with you, so I have a sliver of hope, but still, that niggling worry is there. 

I’m officially healed as of six days ago. Papa hasn’t taken me off the house grounds, however, and  Im going mad  . I’m allowed out in the  garden, but  we haven’t been in the town since I got here.  I’m a bit put out about that , but I haven’t questioned it yet. 

For now, tell James to tell me about the potions project to Slughorn, would you, and tell me how  the Animagi module is going. I bet I can supplement you on reading material . 

Take care my friend.

Love,

Hermione. 

Akuchi watched his granddaughter with her mail over breakfast. She hadn’t made any friends yet within the tribe.  That was his fault, as he could not yet introduce her to the tribe properly. He was holding off. Her sixteenth birthday had passed the day of the attack on her, and he didn’t want to  push her back into the world. Though it seemed to him, that Hermione was more than ready to be back in the world proper. 

Her tutors reported her to be brilliant, quick to master the concepts they would introduce and quicker still to ask for even more information on the topics discussed. Her history tutor especially cited that  Hermione had become the most voracious student he’d ever had. She gobbled up information and books with a vengeance. 

The reports make him smile, sending him back a century or more to when he and Kebe had been students. His Kebe was much like his Hermione is now.  Kebe wanted to know everything, wanted to see everything, and change all the bad that was staining the place she called home. Kebe had done a great deal to eradicate the black arts from their corner of Africa, in fact there were no black arts to be reported within Eze tribal land. His woman had been a fierce one, and the tribe followed her lead even after her passing. 

It might had had something to do with the fourteen magical children they produced, or the one lost child they allowed out into the world to do as she would. He can’t be sure exactly, but the loyalty that woman inspired – he can see Hermione will inspire it in those around her as well. She’d already done so with three English boys who had known her only a week. 

Princess –

Sorry for the lack of proper dating on this letter. It’s post - Quidditch practice and I’m utterly exhausted. Captain is a menace, completely bonkers and if we don’t win that cup, I’m going to dangle him from his toes off the astronomy tower for torturing us almost daily. 

But on to more important business. Padfoot has let me in on the fact you know about our nicknames, his and Moony and  Wormtail’s . Actually, I think I might have been to let Peter’s slip. Either way, I’m Prongs. I know it seems a bit odd without context, but I promise you, if you ever come back, it will. I’ll show you. 

Thank you for the chocolate. I quite liked that kick to it. Much better than the sickeningly sweet white or milk chocolate that most shops market until the nifflers come calling. Unfortunately, it’s not quite as good as the Mexican chocolate my Mum gets in for Christmas. That has a warmth to it that goes clear to your toes on the first sip. 

I’m not saying yours is bad. I’m honored you gave me any, when you made it specifically for Remus.  You’re a sweet young woman, Hermione Eze. It’s a crying shame you haven’t come back yet. You could show the other girls exactly what they should be aspiring to. 

If you can’t come back – and remember that you promised you would, will you come visit Potter Manor over the holidays? Mum officially extended an invitation to you r family, seeing as I can’t seem to shut up about you anymore than Sirius can. Remus said you were worried you might not make it back. 

I really hope that doesn’t turn out to be true. If not for school, once you’re graduated you will, won’t you? It’s just a portkey away. I’d hate to have a friend I never get to see. That’s practically an imaginary friend, and we all know how mental that is.  All Hallows is tomorrow. I’m right put out that I can’t ask the witch I want to come with me to the ball. Without you here, though, I can’t even complain to the fullest, because it’s not as if you were here to reject and laugh at me. 

Moony and Padfoot probably would have harassed you too, come to think of it. We could have gone as a quad, really ruffled some feathers and skirts. 

Keep safe, Princess. 

-Prongs

Hermione -  October 30, 1976

I’ve enclosed some of the homework from our modules for you, specifically transfiguration since you asked about  it last letter.  It’s fantastic you’ve been deemed healthy! I’m glad to hear it, you were drenched in dark magic when you appeared to us, and that was quite worrying at the time. 

I’ve got to warn you, Sirius is quite put out, if I am bein g honest, he’s convinced that you aren’t returning. James is quite distracted by that idea as well. They put on a good show of it, but the yellow silk has been up since the beginning of the month. The Headmaster hasn’t moved it on account of it being ‘quite bright in darkening  days’ . He’s a bit odd at times. 

Tell me about Alchemy. We haven’t had a teacher for the subject in decades, apparently, and I’m honestly a bit sad you’re likely learning all sorts of interesting facts on  it while I’m relegated to self- study. How is your self-transfiguration coming? And your Animagi training? I’ve always been quite keen on the theory of it, but I doubt I have what it takes to support an animal form like an Animagi must. 

Hell, Hermione. How were you in our lives all of a week – just a week – and we’ve come to need you around? I’d say enchantment, if I wasn’t sure you weren’t pants at wandless magic prior to your new Tutors whipping you into shape. 

Be well,

-Moony

Eze -  Samhain 1976

You aren’t coming back, are you? Your grandfather probably went mental when he found out part of his family had been murdered. Rightly so too. But now you’re never coming back to  England are you? 

I made a mistake, Eze. I don’t think James is going to forgive me for it either. Remus might, hell, he might not care about it at all. But – damn it, James shouldn’t forgive me for it. He was in love with her for years. But then you came along, and he never looked twice.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m not the sort to go kissing other bloke’s girls. 

But I kissed Evans tonight – and it was like the earth moved under us as it happened. She didn’t even yell at me for it.  James wouldn’t look at me the rest of the ball. 

You need to come back, Eze. You came  in and drew us to you like moths and now that you’re gone we’re fracturing apart. 

-Black

Princess –

It’s All  H allows , technically November first now and you’re now where to be seen.  I know Sirius has been up to write to you, I saw him take off just after curfew. If he gets to talk to you, then so do I. He kissed Lily Evans. I know that name means nothing to you, but she’s been a part of our lives since we were eleven years old. I thought I was in love with her, I was in love with her. Absolutely head over heels, arse over tea kettle, would walk through fire for her kind of love. 

Now – I don’t know what’s changed. I’m not the least bit mad  Sirius kissed her, and I’m not mad she kissed him back. I don’t feel weird, or hollow or anything, like I would when she would defend her best friend over siding with us.  It’s confusing, I never really looked twice oat another girl with Evans about. Now I don’t even notice her. Is something wrong with me? 

I hope I see you for Yule Holidays, Princess. Maybe you can help us all sort out our bullshit and we can help you with whatever you might need. 

  * Prongs



Hermione set down James’ letter with a gulp, her face pale and her eyes wide. She didn’t think Sirius would ever do something like that James of all people. She remembered him telling stories with a wide smile about how absolutely enamored James had always been with Lily.  Oh, the girl had apparently snapped, barked, and bitten at the lot of them over the years, but nothing moved James from her orbit. 

Sirius had never once expressed interest in Lily during his stories, and Hermione found it odd now that she was having to mull it all over. Lily by all counts was brilliant, loyal, a bit devious and beautiful. That she didn’t have more than the likes of James Potter after  her seemed  unlikely . It didn’t make sense, as the stories never included tales of James warning people away from Lily, except of course, Severus Snape.  But that was one person out of a hundred or so within the school. 

But Lily and  _ Sirius _ ? No one made mention of Lily dating outside of  James and vice versa had never been talked about. It was infuriating. Perhaps this was just a phase?  Something to get James’ attention after not having it for several months. She can think of stranger and more extreme thigs for women to have done when scorned.  Not that Lily had been scorned… 

Was this cruelty on Sirius’ part? He seemed terribly contrite in his letter. He was obviously worried about James, and upset she was still a world away from them all.  The bond they’d apparently formed, the lot of them, was stronger than what she’d had with Harry and Ron.  But not entirely dissimilar. Ron and Harry had saved her from the Troll in the bathroom. The Marauders had saved her from dying after the Death Eater attack. 

Hermione’s eyes drift to a vellum envelope as her hands sink into her mass of hair. James’ mother, Mrs. Dorea Potter, had in fact extended an invitation to  her and her family to come to their annual Yule celebrations as well as ring in the New Year. A week or so with the Potters, James, and Sirius. It sounded as if that might be just the thing that was needed for the lot of them. 

It was time she went to see the mind healer. It was too dangerous for her to visit over the holidays without having done so.  The memories needed to be placed under a ward, or perhaps a g ea s, and keyed to certain points in time for the wards or g ea s to erode.  So, she could still make the changes that may need to be made in the future. 

She folds her letters, stacking them carefully before  plac ing  them in her bureau for safe keeping.  Leaving her room, she heads for the Library, where she is sure to find  her grandfather. If  possible, the man spends more time than Hermione ever had in that particular room. She still has no idea what it is he had done in his youth, as he certainly did not work any longer.  She would need to ask at some point. A sigh leaves her as she moves through the halls toward her destination. There is so much to  do, and she feels she has so little time to accomplish it all. 

“Papa –“ She knocks at the door before sliding inside, smiling gently at the older Wizard.  “I know this may seem abrupt,” her words are slow, Igbo still a little clum sy on her tongue for all she has made progress with it. Right  now, it’s a mass up of basic  Igbo and English. “I want to see a mind healer. I need the memories of the attack to be dulled. ” This, hopefully, would be the best way to broach the subject with Akuchi.  Her grandfather was fiercely protective of her, this need would likely not even cross his mind as something to deny her. 

Akuchi blinks, looking up from his own post, folding the letter in his hands and setting it down on the side table. “Hermione,” his hand indicates the seat beside him on the divan. “You are troubled by the memories. I’ve known that since you came home with me. But, there is an urgency to your request, now after, several months of enduring nightmares.” 

Taking a seat beside him, Hermione’s hands fold in her lap, plucking nervously at her skirt. “I don’t want to keep enduring the nightmares. To keep hearing them yelling and the crack of them trying to apparate away – I just don’t want it anymore. They’re haunting me.  I can’t bear to dream of it, to dream of them in those horrible moments of fear and panic instead of all the good times we had together.” It’s the truth, outside of the apparition comment. Hermione doesn’t want to dream of that day, not that she does often now. It still hurts, either way, and she draws on that hurt to fuel the words and expression presented to her grandfather. 

There is simply too much at stake for her to stay this way, without protection, with all the information about the second wizarding war in her head for anyone to take if they simply know where to look.  Occlumency would take too long, but she as going to ask to start that training as soon as she had some safe guards in place. It was far too risky not to take every precaution she cold – because no matter how long she stayed here in Nigeria, she would be going back to England to help deal with Voldemort. She owed it to Ron and Harry.

“You look like Kebe, with a fierce determination in your eyes.  I will not deny you something so important as this. However, remember child, that bad is what makes the good all the sweeter. Failure helps you to appreciate the triumphs, bad – horrible days – make you appreciate the good ones you are gifted.” 

“This, this is too painful, Papa, far too painful to keep . I need it dulled, and perhaps, when I am older –“

“I forget that you are still only a young woman, not yet 17. You speak as if you were your mother’s age. Go, attend to your studies for the day. I will find you a competent mind healer within the tribe.” 

“Thank you, Papa.” Hermione wraps her grandfather  in a tight hug, pressing a kiss before heading toward the library exit. She’s just made it to the door, when Akuchi clears his throat. 

“The Potter family has invited you and I for the Yule holiday. I t  seems their son and ward of their house were two of the boys who helped you on the train –“

“James and Sirius, yes. I’ve been writing to them, and their friend, Remus.” 

“I thought as much. I’ll send you with one of the Elves this week to begin preparation of a proper coming out wardrobe. I imagine there will be several balls the English will want you to attend as guest of their house. I will not see my granddaughter , an heiress, no less, in English fashion while on an Englishman’s arm. You’ll represent our House and Tribe in our Fashions.”

“Yes, of course, Papa. But, what do you mean, heiress? And will you be coming with me –“

“ While you are not yet of age , Hermione , you speak and act as if you are well into your twenties or even thirties, I will not infantilize you by hovering. I expect you to do me proud, and not do anything that would injure your standing within society.” 

“I will, Papa I won’t dishonor our house.” Her magic flows at the promise, just over her skin in an opalescent show. It makes Akuchi smile to see it, glad the blood of his blood takes her duty to her house so seriously. “However, I think it might be best if you accompany me. I can certainly hold my own against most Wizards, but the English have a habit of attempting to sneak betrothal contracts  into things like balls. You r presence  there would keep anyone from thinking they have an advantage over House Eze.” 

“ As you wish, granddaughter.” He chuckles in response. 

As she leaves, he watches her go, noting the small differences in the young woman since coming to her homeland. Her magic is stronger, after the depletion the English Matron had described, and she’d been a strong witch prior to that, strange to behold in a witch left outside the embrace her family magic. It wouldn’t have been strange had his Hermione been truly  lost -born, she would have been tasked with the creation of her own family magic, a legacy to pass onto any children or heirs she may take into her care. Or it would have supplemented any house she married into that had  its own family magic, bolstering it. 

But his Hermione is no  lost -born, and the strength of her magic is not an anomaly. Surprising to see with her just past her 1 6 th birthday, the first maturation of her core no doubt  starting ready for her 17th , but not truly surprising. When her 24 th birthday arrives, Akuchi has no illusions that his granddaughter will be a force to be reckoned with, especially with her family magic thrumming through her. She is his heir – Kebe’s heir . She will hold all the magic of the family, she will be head when he finally passes on or simply tires of dealing with the drama of the cadet branches whining. 

But there is much to do between then and now. His Hermione wishes to be healed, and he will see to it. She wishes to see those blasted  English boys . He couldn’t find fault in the three she corresponded with. Two were of houses comparable to his, one was smart as a whip, though his condition would dampen  h is life were he to live it in the isolation and bigotry of the English wizarding community.  Where the young man to come to go to one of the many enclaves in Africa or the Americas he would live a better life. 

His weathered fingers tap at the arm of his chair, as he sinks into his thoughts. He hadn’t thought  their Chika  would go to England of all places. Here  squibs were allowed to live within the magical community, they had magical jobs, magical lives, they were still a part of their tribe. Perhaps  there was far more English influence on life than he had really allowed himself to see in the last few decades. Akuchi was aware he was no longer young or even middle aged by wizarding standards. He was firmly within the twilight of his life, and his Hermione barely into adulthood. 

It wasn’t as if he were frail, oh no, he had a good sixty years left in him if he was mindful of his magical  expenditures and overall health. He would see his grandchildren  born, of that he was sure. What he is worried about, listening to the young one now in his life dance through the halls of their home, dictating to a floating parchment her intentions to visit her friends over yule;  is losing his heir. He’s not spoken to her about it, of course, there are things to be done first. 

There is so much to be done on her behalf. So much she must learn. He cannot give her up until the next English schooling year at best , if at all . She had to be properly introduced to society prior to the English Yule celebrations, she had to be announced as heir to before the ley lines, in the blood, the tribe.  _ Then _ she would be presented to the state and lastly the High Witch of the African Council of Nations as the  Magical Igbo tribe heir. Explaining that tribe –  _ house _ – came first, would be interesting, house was the English idea, Tribe was the true tradition here. She looked upon the  world in an English mindset, her first language was English, she thought like the English, making her see the vastness of the Eze inheritance…

“Hermione, come, I must speak with you, girl.” He makes up his  mind and sets aside his post and pushing from the small table he would eventually respond to the letters at. He waits a few moments and her head pops around the corner, curiosity making her magic flair. It had done the same to his Kebe, her hair was like a halo every day they did not have some special event to go to, or if they did not need to work and it was done up in braids when she had been young 

“Come, sit. There is much that I have neglected to tell you, thinking I had much more time now that you have been revealed to me. ” 

“What –“ she begins to question him, and he quells her with a look, indicating the chair nearest to his  writing desk. She bites her lip, looking so much like his girls it hurts his heart. 

“Now, you must sit still and let me tell you all before you ask your questions. I am Akuchi Eze, I lead the Eze, our house. Your grandmother led before me, but her life ended before it’s time, and without magical daughters, the duty fell to me.  You’ve many uncles, my dear, but no Aunts.  I left behind my tribe and my name to marry your Grandmother, and I do not regret a single moment at her side. You see, Eze was once a patriarchal tribe, long, long ago before the Americas were ‘discovered’ as it were.  A daughter rose up against a corrupt father, and took his place, ruling the tribe more efficiently and with more kindness than her father had ever shown. It is how we are  matriarchically now. ” 

He pauses, running a hand over his hair. He needed it to be cut, or perhaps he would have the top braided down and the sides shaped appealingly. It mattered little at present but gave him time to formulate how he wanted to tell Hermione of her Legacy. 

“House Eze is the ruling house of the  C hi  gọziri agọzi Igbo  Tribe of the magical Igbo people.  Those of our tribe live here, among the lost, as it has always been since the beginning of magic with  Eri, the first of the  what the English have know n as the Eze tribe. He founded it, his blood runs through your veins. His magic keeps our land  lush and our farms bountiful. Each  reigning Eze adds a little bit of magic back into what birthed us. But I am getting far from the point. Earlier, I said you were an Heiress, the truth, my dear is you are  _ the _ Heiress. We are the ruling magical tribe here in English Nigeria and the British Cameroons. Lines on a map that define a land that has been ours before those colonizers came for us. You will take a seat on the  African Council of Nations, you may one day be the High Witch of that council should the fates look approvingly upon you. ” 

Hermione watches and listens to her grandfather feeling as if a Thunderbird had just struck her. It was one thing to know she was a half-blood witch, never to be defamed as something so derogatory as mudblood again, it is another thing entirely to know her family is so important. She’s like Draco Malfoy, without all his bad habits. It’s mindboggling. Her mind is calm for the moment, but when Akuchi finishes his explanation, Hermione ’s mind  would surely  shut down rather than pepper him with pertinent questions. 

“I see your face, and I see my Kebe. We grew up together, she and I. Our fate was  known long ago, when Seers were more commonly known. Kebe thought her older sister would take the mantle of Matriarch.  It was not to be. Bless the souls of the fallen, Kebe was always meant to be Matriarch of house Eze, leader of our Tribe.  Our magic and our line are meant to be continued through you, Her mione, as it was carried on through my Kebe.” 

“Are – am I going to be sold into marriage?! Am I never going to see England again, Papa?! It was my home!” Emotion drives Hermione, her magic sparks along her skin, throughout her hair.  Akuchi reaches for her hands,  enveloping them in his own. 

“Peace, child. Peace. There is much being rested upon your shoulders, I wanted to do this slowly. But you are head strong and have plans. I know it – your magic sings with all the plans you have. It’s why I am doing this now, before you visit England and your English Wizards. Our cultures are quite different , especially amongst  Wizardkind . They are far more restrictive than we are.”

“You haven’t answered.”

“ ** Peace ** , Hermione Adaeze. You must have patience with an old man who did not think  the line would live on after my death. You will not be sold into marriage. You choose your  wizard; your magic will help you when the time comes.  But the most important things I have to teach you, the most important things I must do to ready you for the world of society wizards and witches will make our days long. You must take in the family magic properly, you are swathed in it , yes, living in our ancestral home, breathing the air that fairly  rushes with Eze magic, but you are not mired in it yet as you should be. You have not learned enough of our native tongue to be presented to the Tribe as heir, nor have you shed the English thought processes in favor of our own. ”

“Papa I was raised English. I am English. The tribe –“

“Won’t accept the colonizer influence in you. Family first, daughter of Chika, heir of Kebe. You have a legacy, a duty that is solely yours.  There is no one else who can take the mantle for you.” 

His granddaughter sags under the weight of the revelation. She is a smart young woman, he has seen evidence of her intelligence. Emotionally, this likely has taken her by surprise. When he had received her letter asking for help, there was no indication she knew of the clout or  importance of her family name. She came to them ignorant of their ways, her history, her duty. 

He so wanted to have more time with her to ready her. 

“I’m not going back to Hogwarts, am I Papa?” Her question is resigned, and her shoulders straighten.  Her eyes are as haunted as they always have been, but they are sharp. He’s kept things from her, and she’s not one to trust easily. He has set himself back in that endeavor.

“ If I have my way, you aren’t. However, you are the only person who can choose to take the mantle before you . If you choose not to, our line dies, and another takes  its place, chosen by me and gifted the family magic –“

“No.” Hermione swallows hard. It’s so much in such a short span of time. But her family has always been important to her. Her parents when they were simply dentists, Harry and Ron before they were her  actual brothers as dictated by time. “I’m  living, and I’ll take the mantle.  I just – I’m outspoken, Papa, and I am decidedly modern. Even if I give up all my English habits, I will not give up my ideas and values.” 

“I wouldn’t want you to,  my dear.” 


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione took several days to absorb what she’d been  told and asked her history tutor to educate her on Tribal responsibility and the history of her magical Tribe. Three weeks later, Hermione sat at her bureau and tried to figure out how best to  really deal with it all. Before she knew it, she was writing. 

The three worrywarts of Hogwarts November 8 , 1976

I’m sorry I’ve taken so long to respond to your letters.  I’m choosing to respond to you in one, because I remember how my brothers were, and I know you’ve likely been stewing on the problem or outright ignoring it. Both of which will do nothing to rectify the situation. 

James and Sirius, talk to one another.  Put your feelings out there on the subject of Lily and then  _ let her choose _ . I know there is some silly code or some such that says if you like someone then your friends aren’t allowed to like her too. It’s rubbish and it just makes situations like these. If it comes to nothing, do you two really want to be at odds with one another? 

I can hardly say that I know you both as well as my own brothers, but I imagine your answers to be no. 

I am coming to the Potter Yule celebrations, and my grandfather will be accompanying me. I am  hesitant to tell you this part, because post can be intercepted, and I am highly paranoid on that front. However, I’d rather you know before hand so as not to be caught off guard. 

I am the Heir of my House and Tribe. It would put me on par with the heirs of the Noble and Ancient houses of the Sacred 28. My circumstances have chan g ed so profoundly since the first of September, I’m not entirely sure this isn’t all some fever dream that I will soon wake up from. I can’t even fathom it logically, it’s far too emotionally entrenched for me. 

My family is everything. They have always supported me and encouraged my intelligence, enabled my absolute  and  ridiculous zeal for learning. Now I have more than a simple family consisting of two dentists and two brothers. I have a House, a Tribe and a responsibility to my family legacy to uphold it with honor and use my position to advance life in any and all  positive  ways possible. 

Yet, I am the first to admit, that I am torn. My Tribe expects an Eze Matriarch, a true Igbo woman to take the helm of their future. I am so completely English I don’t know how much history,  etiquette and other lessons will help me shed that. Marrying the two seems ideal and  logical but looking at it from the point of view that the English have been  an occupying power, a colonial power here for decades, I can’t see it working out in my favor. 

I take comfort that the Dowry traditions  mean I will not be summarily sold into marriage. I will be matriarch, I am  _ heir _ , no one demands anything of me except perhaps Papa and even  then, it is limited as the family magic, once I am ensconced in it properly, will defer to me rather than him.  It distresses me, because if I’ve a Dowry it means  _ I _ will be paying for my  _ suitor _ . That’s the only reasonable  explanation. I’ve been hiding in the library at  night and found some of the family journals. My grandmother paid my grandfather’s family  an obscene amount to have my grandfather as her husband – a love match by her account, and worth every ingot. 

But,  all of this also means, I will not be able to attend Hogwarts. I must be of my people.  I must learn magic their way, and I need to think their way. Any female children I have will be next in line to take the tribe and our seat upon the council. 

I don’t even know why I am detailing this for the three of you in a letter. What good will it do? I am out of my depth and for once I cannot just use a book to fight my way back to where I can tread water. I don’t know how to be an heir. I have no idea how to be a formidable lady that I will need to be to combat bigotry and  unfair policies aimed at my people. 

England is  self-contained , a small island set easily  go verned. Africa is huge, and I but a small part of the set of cogs in a machine that will keep the magical community running.  At present  there are 54 countries and two seats given to the Nobles of  _ each _ . The commoners are granted one seat  per tribal region. Our council is  ** massive ** . 

My great-great grandmother was High Witch of the African  council of nations. High Witch. She ruled over all, made final decisions that effected the entire bloody continent and the lost – muggle- governments  defer to her in times of crisis because we are so integrated.  That is what my grandfather hopes to groom me for. He has -quite- the opinion of my capabilities.

In other news, in a blatant attempt to keep myself from going  ‘ round the bed. Papa has found a Mind Healer for me. I keep dreaming of the attack and now I might have some peace from that.  It will be a boon, to be sure should all work out as hoped.  I’ve been told once my mind healing is complete, I will be allowed to start the process of becoming an Animagi – provided I have a form that will be agreeable. Papa has bet with one of my Uncles that I will be a  Lioness, while my Uncle, the sod, has declared me to be a Painted Dog. 

Do they allow you to start your potion in Hogwarts?  I imagine it will be distracting to keep a mandrake leaf under my tongue for a month, but the pay off will hopefully be worth it. That means, of course, I will maim any of you who tries to make me swallow the blasted thing over my visit at Yuletide. 

Take care my friends, and please if you’ve got any words of wisdom that might ease my burden, take this as an open invitation to bestow them upon me. 

Love,   
Hermione of House Eze   
Scion of the Chi gọziriagọziIgboTribe

“Well shit e .” Sirius shoves a hand through  h is curls, for once uncaring that it would mess up all his hard work to keep them looking flawlessly styled into a carefree bad boy look. The letter from Hermione was a bit of a punch right to the gut. James and Remus both looked a little dazed after reading it over twice and he can’t blame them. 

They saved a girl who could possibly become the next High Witch over bloody Africa.  He was alarmed as she conveyed in her missive. He knew how hard it was to be a Scion of an Ancient and Noble house. He was slated to become Patriarch before his parents attempted to make him ‘see reason’ and ‘follow the correct path’ which would lead to him on his knees before a psychopath.  James was heir to his house, thought it was not properly classed as Ancient and Noble, it was far more so than his would ever be. The Potters  had Peverell blood and that was n’t even going back to their apparent founder. The founder hadn’t had the surname Potter, as surnames weren’t really the thing at that point…

“Bloody  _ hell _ . She’s basically royalty. ” 

“She’s  an heiress to what I can only assume is an entire magical sect of people in a country that is part of the largest  continent on this earth , whose magical community makes up a large  share of the worlds ,” Remus murmured in response to Sirius’ swearing. 

“And we’ll be hosting her, and her literal  _ King _ of a grandfather over the holidays.” James looks white as he digs through his bag. He needed to tell his mother  _ yesterday _ what sort of influence would be in their house. They needed to  g rill Hermione on dietary needs, and privately research customs that might overlap or be seen as obscene due to cultural divide. 

“Colonizer influence , she literally wrote that in a letter. She can’t be seen as part of the  c olonizing power. Merlin.” Sirius keeps his voice low, but he’s  ashen as he absorbs it all. 

“Dorea is going to have kneazle kittens over this , Prongs. We can’t let anyone else know until the first ball when Hermione and her Grandfather are announced. Every noble house out there will be petitioning for her hand. It would be a coupe of epic  proportions to have a Witch like that in the family with her own family magic and her own rank.  No witch has her own rank here! I don’t think anyone would even care that their Scion would be second to her.  ” 

“None outside the Ministers and Acting house regents, even then, their peerage clout is minimal in comparison to what a male scion or regents is.”  Remus is thoughtful, leaning over to reread some of Hermione’s letter. “She’s doing this for her family honor, and expediting it so she can see us, I think. The paper smells of distress, and what I would  hazard to say is determination, along with sorrow. From the talks I had with her while she was in the Infirmary, this isn’t  exactly the plan she had for herself.  Oh the politicking is absolutely something she anticipated, but from a sphere of non-influence. Hermione expected to have to go to political war to get the changes going that she wanted to see happen. ” 

Remus taps the paper with a wry grin. “Mark my words, once she’s over the emotional upheaval of learning her family is  of the ilk that tormented her and her siblings, she will become a powerhouse. We might not see it happen prior to Yuletide, but after everyone takes their  tests and we’re all deemed adults? Ready for our Masteries? The whole world is going to sit up and take notice of that Witch. ”

“You seem awfully sure of yourself on this, Moony.” Sirius looks thoughtful, and James is frantically scratching onto  parchment but pauses.  He thinks back over some of the conversations he’d had with Hermione and finds himself chuckling. 

“He’s right, Padfoot. Merlin, he’s  right. Hermione is going to turn the magical world upside down, because she knows what it is to be classed as nothing, less than nothing, and now she has  _ everything _ .  Her heart is huge, we had quite the talk about the rights of creatures and the abominable legislation  that the Ministry has kept on the books regarding Witches rights – Hermione Eze is going to drag the magical world by  its ears toward a modern  morality and law set! I can’t wait to see her work.” 


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione had a headache of fantastic proportions. She’d been drilling herself the entire afternoon on the history of the tribe.  She knew the lineage of her House backward and forward, the Eze had started as Kings, elected based upon their merit within the community. They had mirrored the nonmagical side of the Tribe until the first  daughter of the corrupt  ** Eze ** became  **_ Eze  _ ** **_ Nwanyi _ ** **__ ** and the tribe had split. It was a subtle shift, but the Eze were still chosen for their merit, while the  Magical tribe faded into the background. They moved, to provide themselves more protection when the slaving began and now here she was. Queen’s daughter,  biding her time and seeing to her proper training. 

“I’m going to bust  something; the  Queen’s there haven’t been nearly as many as I thought there would have been.  Witches in our line are long lived. Grandmother Kebe died early – they say magical strain from so many children – I say  something else. Great-Great grandmother had  _ thirty _ pregnancies and  _ seventeen _ living children. I have more cousins than I can shake a stick at in this town alone. And the city? I think our tribe populated it, Grandfather.” 

Akuchi laughs,  _ laughs, _ sitting back in his chair, extremely pleased with her progress.  “Kebe  invested  _ much _ of herself into her projects and hopes. Her children, her  legislative desires. Your grandmother had a very ambitious plan that did not make her  many allies among her peers.  No doubt something you  inherited from the way  you connect dots. Officially, Kebe did die from magical strain, but it was more than that , we have  or rather, we had specific strains of Dragon P ox. Not exactly something we knew at that point. Lost medicine has advanced in leaps and bounds, and so has ours in a mirror.  “ 

Akuchi shifts in his seat, left ankle balanced on his right knee. “ Kebe was in a session of the Council, around the time of Chika’s 17 th birthday and we had a Foreign host of dignitaries.  One was a carrier for a new to the continent strain of Dragon Pox. Something similar happened  just at the end of the classical era, with what is known as the Bubonic Plague. There had been strains  prior to that one, that took out most of Europe.  We did not want an incident, no one on the Council did, and those that died,  were said to have died of magical strain. No foul play. Just an unfortunate accident.” 

Hermione nods, she could see the dots, and even the logic there.  It could have caused  the break down of  relations between the ICW and  ACN. “How many  of the council were affected?” 

“Twenty, five of the Noble houses, and the rest were of the  tribal representatives. It was the highest death toll we’d had from a magical outbreak in years. My Kebe, she gave her blood to be studied for a vaccine, as well as two  other of the afflicted. ” 

“That’s  – amazing. She gave her blood knowing how many people could do –  _ awrful _ things with it if placed into the wrong hands. It’s brave.” 

“Oh,  Nwa . Something you would do, yes?” 

“In a heartbeat if it meant no one else would be caught off guard in such a manner . It’s, almost a civic duty. If I can help – I should help.” Her shoulders shrug, her  mouth tilting into a half smile. It’s one of the first he’s seen on her. Hermione comported herself in such a solemn manner, he worried he wouldn’t ever see a genuine, real, smile from the young woman. 

She barely quirks her lips at the letters she receives. Perhaps now they are on a real path to healing, she will be  freer with her expressions.  Chika had been a joyful child, as had every single one of the boys.  “How was your first appointment with the Healer?” 

“ A little embarrassing.  I didn’t know how to start, and she wasn’t completely comfortable with me either. However, we muddled through. I’m sure the next visit will prove a little more fruitful. It will not be a quick process, I’ve accepted that. ” 

“Such a wise girl. She comes highly recommended throughout the community.  She may have been feeding off your discomfort.  It has been known to happen,  especially when in  direct contact with our family. Kebe’s midwives were all a little nervous  the first time they met us. Fifteen children, and three different midwives. It is always  a bit of a get to know  you situation , but usually the partnerships built are lasting. You may have need of a confidant again in your lifetime, may it be long and fulfilling.” 

“I think I come by that  honestly, Papa. I have yet to have a conversation with you where I find you lacking in knowledge.” Another half smile, and this one full of affection. 

“ Kebe had years to train me.” He  chuckles and is gratified when Hermione does as well. 

“You speak of her often, and with reverence, Papa. It sounds like you truly loved her with all of your heart.” 

“I did. I left my tribe for her, I worked to see her flourish and helped her with every project she undertook when she needed it of her. I love each of our children to the greatest extent I can. However, Kebe, she was my shining star. She was what I  woke up thinking  about and went to sleep anticipating dreaming of. We were bonded in all ways possible,  Nwa . I hope for such a match for you. A love match, a match that stands besides you and bolsters you, protects you, gives you many, many children and a happy family.”

“I have years yet before any of that is relevant, Papa.” Her cheeks darken, head ducking.  “I am not an easy witch to be around. It will take a long time to meet someone that will put up –“

“No, no, Hermione Adaeze. You will not settle for someone who will ‘put up’ with you. You will find something more.” 

“If you say so, Papa. Will you come to  etiquette class with me? It’s dancing, and I would like a partner that is not also my teacher.” 

“I believe I am a touch too tall to partner with you, my dear, but I will stand in anyway.” 

My dear Jamie, November 12 th , 1976

Your Miss Eze has proven to  be quite the young lady. I received her RSVP just this morning before I sat to write you this. She thanked us graciously for the  invitation and informed us House Eze accepts. She and her Grandfather, Akuchi Eze, whom you’ve said you met briefly will be staying with us for the entirety of Yule and  ring in the New Year. 

She’s a spitfire, my dear. She made it be  known that  _ she _ insisted her Grandfather accompany her to ward off any potential contracts, as the young lady is well aware how some of the less scrupulous  families work. I am dually impressed. She is sharp, and yet utterly gracious. Her handwriting is elegant and clear. Which is a far sight more than I can credit you with, my dear. 

I am of the impression you two are the same age?  Her English is perfect, indicating either an English tutor of the highest degree, or the witch has been living here in England for her developmental years. I will be writing her back to investigate if there are any  needs she expects us to meet over this Yule celebration. I will also begin a dialogue with her grandfather, as he is her patriarch and it is, of course, only proper . 

Sirius has written us about Miss Evans, and an invitation has been extended to h er as well. Though, we have not heard back at this time. I thought that you and the esteemed Miss Evans may come to an understanding in the event you  ceased your father’s antics. I was rather shocked when Sirius stated it was  _ his _ intention to come to an understanding with her. 

Has someone else ensnared you? While it is not uncommon for Potter men to find their wives young, there have been more than a few who found it in their teens and twenties.  If I am made to guess, I would have to say it is your Miss Eze who has caught your eye irrevocably.  I would admit surprise to this, as you’ve only had letters to kindle any sweet feelings toward her, but Miss Evans hexed you and Sirius from the second she knew  how, and Sirius seems  to have been quietly  enamored with the young woman this entire time .

Are you and Sirius all right, in light of this development ? I would hate to see my boys at odds with one another over love. Love is far too precious in all  its forms for  that.  In the event that all is well, give Sirius my love, and in the  event,  all is not well, do pull your head out of your posterior and make amends. Brothers are precious . Keep yours close. 

Mr. Lupin’s mother accepted the invitation to Yule on his behalf. I imagine she has written him with the information , she said she will come to visit us the day of and spend some time with her cub.  Mrs. Pettigrew, however, has declined the invitation as usual. She is a vile  woman but has produced such a sweet boy. Express my sympathies to  Peter and make him aware he is still welcome for day visits should she  acquiesce. 

Your progress report for the semester is quite impressive,  Fawn.  We will be present for your Quidditch Match against Ravenclaw this week. I expect you to be at the top of your game, as you have been with your studies. 

All my love,   
Mum

James folded the letter carefully, slipping it into his charms textbook next to several other letters from home. He was relieved  that his letter hadn’t caused any panic, though he was still on tenterhooks after Hermione’s Letter just four days before. He hadn’t received one back from her  yet and curses the fact they are so far from one another. He was patient, but having a friend so far away was making him give new meaning to the word. 

“What did Mum have to say?” Sirius bumps his shoulder affectionately against James’ and the hazel eyed boy eyes him with a smile. 

“She sends her love, as always.  She’ll scream with happiness to know you’ve taken to calling her Mum. She’s sent a letter to Evans’ parents to invite them to Yule, by the way.” He reaches for the platter of  scrambled eggs, taking a couple  spoonful’s , before  plucking a piece of to a st from a neighboring platter. A couple sausages came next and a whole plethora of fruit. 

“ Walburga would lay an egg if she knew about Evans.”  Sirus ’ voice is low, a thread of worry through it as he tilts his head just so. James’ eyes flick up, looking at his brother as his brother takes in Evans down the table. She has a book in front of her,  her parchment unrolled, a sandwich of some kind assembled off to her left that she takes up every so often to nibble at. 

She’s lovely, James has always thought so,  but it just wasn’t the same anymore. He admired Evans, liked her snark and quick draw with her wand, but he doubted he looked anywhere near as cow eyed as Sirius currently did. His eyes flick to Remus, who rolls his eyes in response. 

“Just make sure she knows why you aren’t making grand declarations and parading her around Hogsmeade, yeah? Evans is sensitive to that sort of thing, even though she hated the way I  treated her. She won’t abide being a dirty secret.”

“There’s nothing dirty about that bird.” Sirius growls and James pins him with a look that says he is well aware of the fact. 

“Don’t start, Padfoot. Mum sent her an invitation to Yule. Well, to her parents. All I’m saying, is explain things to her, before someone catches onto your  newly developed penchant for stealing kisses from her and says something ill advised. ”

“And stop hexing, Snape.” Remus chimes in pointedly. “He’s still her good friend, and nothing will drive you apart faster.” 

“I’m not an idiot, lads. I know all this.” 

“Knowing and doing something about it are two very different things, mate. Learn from my mistakes.” James  takes a forkful of breakfast and hums. Not as good as what was served at home, but then nothing was. His mum always cooked breakfast,  saying it was the bonding meal of the day when no one else could intrude on the family. Perhaps that was part of what made it so good. He had the same line of questioning thought every breakfast away from Potter Manor. 

“Right. Right.” Severus shakes his head a little, shoulders drooping just a touch.  Clearly, he wasn’t looking forward to having to go on the defensive with Snape and stay on the defensive.  “Couldn’t have chosen an easy witch, could I. Oh no, I had to pick the smartest of our year, and the only Gryffindor to openly befriend a Slytherin and previously embarrassed within an inch of her life near daily by my brother in magic .” 

“Nothing worthwhile is easy,” mutters Remus. 

“And nothing easy is worthwhile,” Sirius finishes with a put-upon sigh. 


	9. Chapter 9

“Your granddaughter is an excellent dancer, Akuchi. She’s taken to the traditional dances with  ease and had only a slight issue with the  European formal dances. A good sense of rhythm once she’s comfortable, I suggest  keeping her dancing at least once a week for now until the dancers are ingrained in her, and then perhaps once a month if she professes to enjoy the activity. ” 

Akuchi nods solemnly, pride in his eyes. He  didn’t enjoy being patriarch or tribe leader, but in this moment, he couldn’t be happier. His Hermione was being exposed to tribe members without having to be on display, and she was proving  to be more brilliant than he’d originally assessed when she began her studies at the beginning of October. 

She wasn’t  faltering with her  new  role but running at it head on. The Elders who he’d chosen for their progressive thinking to teach her all found her zeal  refreshing and  it seemed to be breathing life into them. No doubt they spoke of his young granddaughter when they returned to their own households. He’d still not formally introduced her, so information on her was beyond sparse. The tribe would eat up the little anecdotes about her learning tribal history , her ability to see through guises that the books laid over events that were more than they seemed, of her dancing and how she groused about being so small in comparison to her much taller grandfather. 

Yes. This was going well, and he prayed  the trend continued. “Thank you for the report. I will retain your services until she chooses to end them herself. An adjustment to the agreement, however, she needs someone within her height range to dance with.  I would like for you to bring a new partner each week, so she adjusts to many different people easily.”

“Excellent suggestion, Akuchi. I will do so. Please, excuse me, I don’t want to take up too much of your time, and my youngest will be returning home from  Uagadou for the Harvest festivals tonight.” 

“No, no. Go, be with your family. Hermione will not be present at the festival, as she hasn’t learned the old magic properly yet, but I anticipate her properly leading the Spring blessings.” 

The dance teacher departs with a smile on weathered lips. The festivals were still important to the magical tribes. Displaced though they were from their ancient lands, this land was now theirs and seeped in  their magics, more each year, each century since the original move. So much so, he often didn’t think of the tribe as displaced. Few but the oldest crones of the tribe did. 

“You’ve acquired your apparition license training?” 

“Not presently, after dueling lessons, my grandfather has an instructor come to  whip me into shape. I estimate  mid-January at the earliest.” Hermione tucks a curl behind her ear, sitting at a desk in the  library set up for her lesson s. 

“Excellent. Perhaps we will get your animagi registration underway by the summer  for now, tell me the theory behind self-transfiguration. “ 

Dear Mrs. Pot ter -  November 20 th , 1976

I wanted to reach out and thank you for the invitation to stay with you at yule tide. It’s a lovely gesture for a girl and her family that you aren’t familiar with. 

I must confess, I did not think I had made such an impression upon James or the others to warrant them desiring to see me so soon after leaving. Then again, I am often  surprised by people holding any sort of affection for me. My best friends outside of my brothers became friends with me after we were all nearly killed by a  distressed troll in our first year. It was quite a to do. I suppose that is just how I create friendships – in times of dire stress.

I find in such circumstances the true measure of people can be seen. But I didn’t mean to go on! I truly wanted to thank you for the kindness you’re extending, in reaching out to learn of our yule traditions.  I’ve asked my grandfather his preferences, and he has said for you to not put yourself out, as there is no need to worry. Our tribe celebrates the Solstice  with blessing rituals and communions with wild magic.  No dietary concerns, though Grandfather has insisted we will be bringing yams with us. They are our principle crop, a staple among our cuisine,  and they are quite delicious. The sweetest I have ever had. 

Thank you again, Mrs. Potter, for the invitation. 

Blessings upon your house,   
Hermione Adaeze of House Eze   
Scion of the Chi gọziriagọzi Igbo Tribe

Miss Eze -  November 24 th , 1976

I hope the harvest has been bountiful for you and yours.  We look forward, very much, to meeting you and your esteemed Grandfather. James, Sirius and Remus will be in attendance this yule, and the day of the major festivities, Miss Lily Evans will also be making an appearance as Sirius’ guest.

We thank you in advance for the gift of  something so integral to your tribe. We will be delighted to feature them during the family dinner on the eve of  Midwinter .  Our family also does not adhere to the Christian  celebrations but prefer to use blessing and  communal rituals to ensure the New Year is all that it could be. 

If I may be bald, Miss Eze. You have exceptional communication skills and seem wise beyond your years. I must intimate again, that I am eager to make your acquaintance. I must see the girl who entranced the Marauders so completely. 

Blessings upon your house,    
Dorea Potter

Hermione  had never seen so many styles of dress. She truly hadn’t . Then again,  Hermione wasn’t truly invested in  women’s fashion prior to knowing she  _ had _ to be.  There were French designers, Italian,  even a few Persian  designers mixed in with the very few English her Grandfather  had allowed.  The African  designers, the ones who flouted the idea of  succumbing to the fashion of the  imperialist power, however, were  _ amazing _ . The vibrancy of the colors and the cuts of the dresses were, honestly, less modest than anything Hermione had seen in Madam  Malkin’s shop.  But, she loved it. They would hug her waist  and show off her hips and would make every Pureblood  clutch at their pearls.  It’s  vindictive of her, but she  desperately wanted to see a few society witches lose their cool. 

She chose several dresses that were  risky by Wizarding standards, but demure by her own 90s fashion standards.  Her shoulders would be naked, but the rest of her would be covered up – not so covered that  her shape would be hidden however, oh no. The red dress she chose fit like a second skin, with a helpful slit up the back so she could walk. The blue and green dress  was a little more conservative, the waist was tight, and the hips free, but her shoulders, once again were left naked. 

Her grandfather had only raised a brow and commented that had they truly  held to the tribal traditions, he would have to place chastity and  discretion charms on her for her own safety. Which, of course, had  led Hermione to seek out elders who seemed to become more frequent figures within the manor. She’d had a delightful conversation with the Healer Matron, who took a shine to her  ‘delightful disregard for English Etiquette’ . It had been an eye-opening conversation.

What Hermione wasn’t ready for – were the hair wraps. They were just as lovely as each dress they matched, but she couldn’t for the life of her  figure out how to properly place it without magic. It had taken her going to  the Matron,  Ihu oma to learn the proper charms. 

“Girl, you are so English,” the Matron can’t help but laugh at the young heiress as she helplessly  shows her the wraps. “Good taste in colors, but so English.” Her words are slow, and in the native tongue. She would indulge Hermione only so much. 

“I know,  Ihouma, I am trying to learn not to be.” Her miserable answer keeps the Matron from laughing, and instead lays a weathered hand upon the heiress’ thin shoulder. 

“No. You learn to be Igbo, but you keep that English in you too. Akuchi might think the young can’t handle it, that the tribe may not accept you without all the English stamped out, but you’ll need it. You won’t settle for one of our Tribal boys, it’s written on your soul, girl.  Your grandfather is wise, but he misses his wife too much, and you have much of Kebe in you – but you are Hermione, not Kebe.”

The way that Hermione had lit up almost hurt Ihouma.  But she pushes it aside for now. Hermione wanted to represent the tribe while in England for their Winter Solstice, so she would represent the tribe. The Matron’s eyes take in the cloud that is the heiress’ hair. 

“You’ve been living without proper hair care too long. I can’t teach you to wrap your hair when it is dry and brittle like that. Come, I will take you to my home and we will set to rights your hair first, and then deal with the charms for wrapping it up and making a crown.”

The wizened woman had yelled for Hermione’s grandfather in a manner that made Hermione’s eyes blow wide. The woman fairly  _ shrieked _ that she and ‘the girl’ would be going to her  home, and would not be back until the evening meal. 

“Ihouma, it won’t –“

“ _ Hush _ , it will take that long. Your hair is a mess. You don’t take care of it properly. That will be fixed today. Akuchi does well with you, but sometimes you need great-great-great grandmama to teach you what women keep secret.” 

And it did take all day, to Hermione’s chagrin. 

“Your curls are beautiful, those  corkscrews we all want, must be your English father that tempered them. Most of the Igbo hair is  wilder .” It wasn’t necessarily an admonishment, but Hermione still shrunk away from the comment, even as Ihouma’s hands patted her shoulders. 

“You need to keep your hair moisturized, or it will become  unmanageable and a cloud, you will be made fun of. How can a woman not keep her hair in order yet be expected to keep the tribe in order.”

“That is patently ridiculous, Ihouma!” 

“Such is life. Men are patently ridiculous too, it’s why you see so many female pairs here.” 

“Ihouma!” 

“See! More English . It’s natural. What else would it be? You want a partner, yes?”

“Well, I suppose, eventually. I hadn’t really thought about it -“

“Yes. Yes. What do you want in your partner.” 

“Intelligence, obviously. Patience,  passion, emotional availability, a bit of a sense of humor, -“

“You didn’t say they had to have a cock.” 

“ _ Ihouma!” _

Her hair is  tugged, and her head goes back with it as she tries to admonish the older woman. It rolls right off the older witch, however, who keeps carefully coming out the riot of curls that is Hermione’s hair now that it has been washed and properly moisturized. 

“Don’t you try to make me feel like I am being chastised. It’s true! None of your requirements was a cock. Why do you think that is?” 

“I don’t know. I assume I would be with a man –“

“Why?”

It draws Hermione up short. Her brows come together as she looks for an answer. Why did she assume she would be with a man?  Children is the most obvious answer. She wanted some of her own , in the  far-flung future, and now that far flung bit would likely be much closer. Her place as heir of the tribe meant she must provide an heir as well – 

“You are thinking too hard. I bet you are thinking of children.  Kwento and  Ogechi have  _ seven _ children. They have no man in their life.” 

“What really?!” Hermione pulls from Ihouma’s hands, turning to face the old woman. “How?”

“There are always more women in magic then men.  And some of the men are not worth their magic.  So, the women who end up with a lover who is also a woman, they petition magic for children. Ritual magic, light magic, the creation of life.  Why do we need men if we have this ability?” 

“Did you –“

“My wife was beautiful. Your great-great-great-grandmother.”

“Why didn’t you say?!” 

“Is it terribly important? I am of your tribe, and you trusted me. Family is important – tribe is important, they are one and the same.” 

“Yes but –“

“You are being English again, little Princess. We are your family, by blood and by covenant.”

“Yes, Great-grandmother.” 

“Good girl.”

Hermione had ended up with a headful of braids . They had been charmed, thankfully, so they hadn’t taken  twenty hours to put in, but her hea d still ached.  It was worth it, however, so worth it. She wouldn’t have to really  worry about daily styling while they were in, and when she did want something fancy it would be much, much easier for her to achieve. 

But all of that paled in comparison to her beside the fact she had a living great-great- _ great _ grandmother. A lesbian grandmother! Her line was steeped in magic. The children were  _ born _ of magical petition. It  completely negated everything Hermione had been taught and new. The 90s had been freer, in some respects, with their clothes and language, but it was still as bigoted as any other era. To know it was okay if she didn’t find a male partner she wanted  – that her tribe wouldn’t turn on her. 

It was a blessing Hermione would keep safe like a dragon guarding her horde. 

James - November 2 6, 1976

I met my thrice great grandmother some days ago.  _ Thrice great _ ! Furu efu  don’t live nearly long. I’m so lucky to have met her and interacted with her. She’s the Healer Matron of the region here.  _ The region _ . That’s  – I can’t quite express how important, how amazing that is. 

Her wife – HER WIFE- was matriarch of the tribe for  75 years before she stepped down in favor of my great-great grandmother. My line is so magical – I can’t quite absorb the idea of it.  There is an  entire generation of my family that was conceived via magic. I ask that you not let that be known, such that I spelled the letter to only be  opened by you. 

I find out more and more each day.  I don’t know how to absorb it all and  process it. There is so much legacy here, and I’ve just been  dropped into it all because of circumstance.  Can  I possibly live up to it all? I do so well in my studies but is that enough? Can I possibly be what they need? The voice they need  within the council. Gods, I haven’t even  _ seen _ the Council of Nations let alone watched one of the proceedings. It’s terrifying! Grandfather is the regent of our tribe and will continue until I am of  a state where I can take over as Matriarch. But – James, I don’t know if I can do this. I truly don’t know. 

Perhaps I could talk to you and Sirius about this when the holidays hit. I know Sirius had training because he is the Eldest  ruling branch of the Blacks. I know that not because he told me, but because Grandfather has made it a point I know which houses are ‘Ancient and Noble’ and which are simply Ancient. 

That  Director is pure rubbish. Who exactly deemed these families pure?! Have they an ounce of  genealogical training? Did they comb through hundreds up on hundreds of years of records to verify the veracity of the claims laid out in the Directory? And that the entirety of the English wizarding community adheres to it just boggles my bloody mind! Do none of you question the written word? 

I didn’t used to, but after having been exposed to more than a single fraud author I have learned to do just that. I trust what I can verify and research what isn’t easily verifiable.  There’s so much to sort through and learn and just do here. I don’t know how I imagined I could walk away from it all to be sequestered in a castle as marvelous as Hogwarts to finish out my education. 

I don’t know how I thought I could separate myself from family and tribe. 

I’ve taken up enough of your breakfast,  however. I’ll end this letter here. Do regale me with tales of Quidditch triumph. 

Love, 

Hermione

Sirius – November 26, 1976

How did you do it? How were you the Scion of House Black?  Were there lessons upon lesson upon lessons? How do you embrace that family legacy? The legacy of the magic that is steeped into the walls of your houses and lands? How do you absorb the traditions and somehow make your own way through it all. 

I am so out of sorts. I find myself wishing for days when life was all around simpler than it has become. I meet with tutors, masters of their craft and I thought that would be me one day. I would be a master at something, or perhaps many somethings, and live a quiet, fulfilling life of research and innovation. Now, I don’t think that will be my life at all. I don’t think I will be researching much of anything if my life revolves around  my family seat and making sure the tribe is well cared for. 

It’s so overwhelming. How did you accept it? 

Love,

Hermione

Eze –  November 26, 1976

I should start calling you Princess, like Prongs does. It seems he was onto something when that name came around. 

As for how I dealt with being the heir of the House of Black is easy. I didn’t. I did the classes, I know the  proper way to do just about everything in re g ard to pure blood anything, but I didn’t want to be  the Scion of House Black. I don’t respect what the House stands for.  My Great-Uncle Alphard is relatively middling on his political stances, but my parents are radical blood purists. 

Which as you can imagine caused some issue when I was sorted into  Gryffindor and they learned my best friend was from a house known to ‘consort’ with muggleborns and muggles.  I can’t imagine what would be done to me if I were still living with them and they learned I’d shared a kiss – just a kiss – with Lily Evans. 

I’d probably be murdered. As it is, I will likely need to sue them when I am of age to get out of any possible betrothal contracts still holding my name on them. It’s a mess. My advice is to  ask someone else about this, Poppet. I am not a good source of information. 

In other news, Lily Evans, who you did not get to meet in your stay at Hogwarts, has agreed to come to Yule. She’s  whip smart and muggleborn too, so you two should get on like nifflers in a vault of gold.  I hope you do anyway. For some reason you’re important to me, and Lily meeting your approval is also important. 

Remus is put out that you haven’t written him this week. As if you didn’t send him a giant box of chocolate last week with a  four-page long letter.  If I didn’t know better, I’d say he has a crush. 

See you at yule, crazy witch,

  * Padfoot



Princess -  November 26, 1976

I don’t know what you wrote to Sirius, but you actually made him look a little worried about you. Our carefree, skirt chasing Sirius Black looked worried for you. A girl. Whom he’s never kissed or felt up even slightly. I’ll let the awe settle for a moment. 

I had to ask Professor Flitwick for a translation charm for your letter. I had no idea what Furu efu meant. That is far more elegant than just calling the non-magical  _ muggles _ . It’s condescending and dehumanizing. Magically lost is far less so. It implies we were all  magical and some simply lost their way. An equalizing statement. I  would love to see it become vogue here in Wizarding Britain. The likelihood is slim, however, with a Dark Lord on the rise and his platform fueled by blood mania.  Remus likens him to  Grindelwald and the muggle, no, the  _ lost’s _ dictator – Hitler.  Apparently, this Hitler said there was a ‘Master Race’ of Blue eyed, blonde haired Caucasian people.  Which is madness, honestly. As if your  _ hair _ and  _ eyes _ make you some sort of  superior being. 

Honestly, I think that era went a little mad. I’ve written my mum about it, she said it was a bit mad, and  that the Dark Lord was coming up through school at the time. She apparently was a  se venth year and  met him in his first. Said he was a strange child and she  avoided him as often as possible as she was a Prefect herself that year. So, it makes sense he was in his formative years as the Lost war began. I’ve heard it was quite traumatic even for the magical community.  He certainly co-opted Hitler’s rhetoric. 

But that isn’t here or there. Your problem is not with the Dark Lord. Though it may be if the Aurors and Ministry don’t hurry up and shut him down. Things are – ugly in the news. Worrisome. 

You’re brilliant, Hermione. We’ve been writing to one another for months now, and when we discuss academics,  your brilliance shows. Even when we aren’t – you have a wide breadth of knowledge.  Your level of compassion and dedication to your personal ideals are – something to write home about, if you’ll pardon my co-opting a lost phrase. I’ve been reading some books for pleasure from America that my father sent to me, quite entertaining. 

Apologies for the tangent. What I mean to say is – you’re perfect as a House Scion. So, you need to learn your tribe, that shouldn’t be a hardship for you, you are surrounded by family. Family that seems to be accepting you, regardless of your English Imperialist ties.  You’re a compassionate person, and you’re willing to embrace a family you didn’t know you had regardless of circumstance. I’m fairly sure had you been landed in a group of blood purist bastards you’d have found your way back to Hogwarts come hell or high water. 

Now, I really must know, Miss Eze – do you go in for birds? If you do, I’ll need to warn Sirius. Lily is quite beautiful and brilliant herself. I can’t have you stealing her away, it would break his little heart. 

Seriously, Hermione. You’re going to be an amazing Matriarch because you care about this so much.  My Dad is a great father because he loves me and cares about my future. Walburga and Orion are shite because they don’t care about Sirius just what Sirius doesn’t do for them. 

You’re going to be fine, Princess. 

Just a few weeks until I get to argue with you about House Elves again. I can hardly wait.

Take breaths, and take care of yourself,

James. 

P.S. Write Remus this week please. You’ve worried him, I think. Can’t quite say how he got the notion that something was wrong, but  just write him. 

James - November 27, 1976

I’ve sent Remus quite the letter. Please, keep an eye on him. I’ve revealed I learned about his  illness and given him  something to help treat it. I don’t bloody well care that he’s ill, he’s my friend first and foremost, please try to impress that upon him from me. 

Also – learn to  vary your excuses for his absences. Anyone who cares to rub two braincells together will figure it out otherwise. 

Love, 

Hermione

Remus - November 27, 1976

I’m  beginning his letter with an affirmation to you. I love you my friend. In a week you imprinted yourself firmly on my soul as someone I could trust and lean on. You are not unlike one of my brothers, whom I cherish a great deal. 

Now, with that out of the way, you and your other two tagalongs may want to begin varying your reasons for being ‘ill’ and your penchant for ‘just knowing’ when someone is in distress. I may be an exception to the rule, but it is rather  obvious to me that you  are a Lycanthrope. We cover ‘dark creatures’ extensively in my third year of schooling and your symptoms match up in an almost textbook way. 

The difference is, of course, you have a better hold on your humanity. Though, I have begun researching the ‘were’ virus, as it is something quite common here in Africa, not necessarily Nigeria and the Cameroons, but Egypt is awash with were-jackals and cats . My research is leading me to believe that you will be in less pain if you embrace your animal nature. Please don’t burn this letter yet!

Bear with me,  embracing animal nature does not mean you must accept that you kill for sport. It does mean you must accept the wolf, and that you are in essence a carnivore. You must also embrace the wild magic that created the ‘curse’ that has  been given to you. 

The English have a very narrow view of Lycanthropy and were - people in general. I believe those views that paint them as cursed and villains are just as bad as blood mania and created people like Fenrir Greyback who delight in becoming the stuff of nightmares.  I haven’t yet let on to my family I know a were-person because I haven’t  fully  ascertained their political  leanings on the subject. They are lovely people, but no family is perfect. 

I have also found a n obscure potion that is being developed extensively in Russia by an English Potions apprentice. I’ve enclosed the formula s well as ingredients for you.  I hope it helps with some of he  pain you feel, though I do truly believe the research and various accounts I’ve read that accepting the animal within also helps to mitigate the pain of transformation. Just think about  it Remus. It may give you a level of control you didn’t have before, and in turn, make life easier for you. 

My gran dfather also mentioned you several weeks ago. He asserted you would be welcome to apprentice at our company. Which of them I can’t quite  nail down, there are at least a dozen. I will ask him to write to you on the subject rather than play go between.

Take care my friend and remember I will -always- be in your corner.

Love,

Hermione. 

Mr. Lupin 28 th of November 1976

As I write this missive, so too does my granddaughter. She has been asking probing and leading questions for weeks in what she must assume are a secretive manner.  Truthfully, she has much to learn on that front. 

As to why I write to you – I write about your nature. You are a Were-Person are you not? Afflicted, as the British would say, with a beast inside that only physical manifests under the light of the full moon . If this is true, I invite you t o send me a copy of your O.W.L results. Africa is a much more hospitable place for those of such conditions.  You could have a life here, a family without persecution or being relegated to poverty. 

Sincerely

Akuchi Eze   
Acting Patriarch of House Eze   
Acting Patriarch of the Chi gọziriagọziIgbo Tribe

“Moony, what’s wrong?” James had been  reading a letter from his mother, who was apparently in correspondence with Hermione and her grandfather Akuchi.  If his mother wasn’t his mother, James would worry about a marriage contract being in the works. Thankfully Dorea Potter married for love, and bro w beat her parents into accepting a suit from his father . That, and Hermione had mentioned in a letter that though she had a dowry, she wouldn’t be sold off in marriage.

Which was a bit of a contradiction, but James trusted her on that front. The last thing either of them needed was to be was shoved into some  bullshite marriage arrangement that would mean  neither of them would claim happiness because they hadn’t chosen it.  Or at least it would mean he would never claim happiness because he never wanted a marriage contract that he hadn’t asked for. 

He wanted the choice . But that wasn’t what was wrong with his rapidly paling friend who tore through one letter to tear through another. It makes James tilt his head and try again. 

“Moony?” 

“She knows.” The words are croaked out, and Remus looks to be half choking on them. His eyes are shining in a way that leads James to believe he wants to cry, and James has no idea what exactly ‘she’ knows. 

“Okay, we’ve got a free period this morning. Let’s go.” He’s up, shoving his mail into his bag and grabbing some fruit for them both. He’s around the table and got Remus by the arm in a flash summoning his things as they leave . Whatever this is, its important and James can think of a half dozen major things  someone could know that would horrify his sandy haired bookworm friend. 

It’s not until they’re locked in their dorm room, apples and oranges shoved into Remus’ hand as he sits leadenly on the bed that James refocuses in on the issue. “Okay, now who knows what?” 

“Hermione and her Grandfather, they know I’m cursed.” 

James blinks, and shakes his head, the words not quite hitting in the first ten seconds. Hermione and Akuchi knew? How?! He fumbles for his bag and pulls out his letters, looking for the one he’d seen from Hermione. He had asked her a few days ago to write to his wolfly friend. 

“Oh hell.” He only has two small paragraphs, but they say it all. Hazel eyes meet those rimmed with gold and he sighs. 

“So, she knows. Remus that isn’t the worst thing in the world.” 

“I don’t. I can’t.”

“Stop it.”  James isn’t shocked about how sharp his voice is. This is somewhat normal for Remus. There was always at least one day during the school year that Remus would have a bit of an attack and spiral on the subject of his Lycanthropy.  James personally wanted to find Ly all Lupin in a dark ally and beat him for the insecurities he’d created in his son.  All because the man hadn’t taken a single moment to  _ help _ his son rather than simply be terrified of him. 

“Hermione is a smart witch, yeah?” 

“Of course, brilliant really. Probably neck and neck with Lily and she is  maybe the Brightest of our year peers.” 

“Right. So, why would you believe Hermione to be deluded in some manner?” 

“What the – “

“Because,” James continues, cutting off Remus’ protest. “That’s what you’re thinking. Just like you do with Me and Sirius and Peter. You think we’re going to get ourselves killed just because we know and care about you. You’re our best mate, Remus. The furry little problem doesn’t make you  into some sort of evil and dark bastard.”

“I’m a murderer! A monster!”

“No!  No, you aren’t!” James shoots a silencing spell at the door as he raises his voice without meaning to. It always happened like this. He should know better than to leave off the spells by now.  “You aren’t a monster and you damn sure aren’t a murderer. Snape didn’t even get a scratch last year, and that wasn’t just because of me. You could have killed me if you really wanted to, Moony but you didn’t. The wolf recognized me on some level and the attack was to get at Snape not neutralize me! Hermione doesn’t even  _ know _ about that. She just knows about the furry side of you. As does her grandfather. It’s not so bad –“

“It’s more than that!” Remus sighs and runs his hands over his face and through his hair dejectedly. “They know I’m a were of some kind. Hermione mentioned that were  _ people _ were common. She specifically mentioned Egypt.  Her grandfather. Her grandfather requested a copy of my O.W.L Results so he could offer me an apprenticeship with one of their companies.” 

“ So what the  _ hell _ are you going on about for? They clearly accept you –“

“Hermione said that  they accepted the animal within and the transformation wasn’t as painful. She gave me the recipe for an experimental potion too, which supposedly will help with the issue.” 

“You think she’s wrong?” 

“I think she’s like you and the others. You’re optimistic and you only see the good in me, the play time with the wolf. You don’t see the fact I could rip a person to shreds –“

“Fuck that for a joke, mate. We all know you could kill us if we slipped up. We know Moony is angry when he  transforms, and it sounds like it might be because he lives caged.”

“You can’t possibly believe her?” 

“I think she’s brilliant and if she’s got a  theory, she probably researched the hell out of it before sending you that letter. She’s  sent me personally almost a hundred since she left, and I know you’ve got a similar amount. The topics are varied, Remus, and she’s always talking about this thing she learned or that thing she wanted to read about. The girl leaves no stone unturned.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s got it right about this.” 

“So then let’s research. You and me and the boys. We’ll ask if she can send us some material, since apparently Flourish and Blotts can’t be classed as the be all end all of our reference material, and who knows if we can get access to the restricted section this year this close to the  hols .  We ask her for some material and we learn if she’s gone barmy or if she’s onto something. We let my dad take a look at that formula, you know he created that crazy potion witches go  gaga for, and make sure it’s really safe for you. Then we move forward.” 

“All right.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Remus sighs and his shoulders slump. He hated being this way. He hated that his friends had to talk him out of the spiral. He hated being a werewolf, something inherently dangerous. He hated that he’d pulled Hermione into that same orbit as the other marauders too. “Sometimes I wish –“

“Remus John Lupin, if you say you wish you were dead, I will  call your mother  _ again _ .” 

His hands come up in surrender. The black-haired boy knew him too well. They all did at this point. Even Peter who had been drifting away from them a bit of late. 

“Eat your fruit, Prongs.” 

“Shut up, Moony.” 


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione had been prepared to  l eave on the  morning of the  19 th of December, her trunk packed, dresses and casual clothing for every possible  occasion chosen.  She was surprised that the holidays would be so  long and wondered if  the war had changed how long the Hogwarts holiday periods were. She had always gone home on the 21 st , right ready for Christmas, never mind that the Solstice was usually the 22 nd of December. Everyone went home at the same time, unless kids were pulled from the term early because of extenuating circumstances. 

Considering the end of term exams were the week prior to the holidays she couldn’t see anyone leaving unless circumstances had been dire back with their family. The thought of missing exams and having to take the make ups was a bit horrifying to her. Still, she tugs lightly on her dress, reaching up to make sure her  headwrap was secure before presenting herself to her grandfather. 

“You look lovely,  _ Nwa _ .” 

Her smile is bright, and Akuchi wonders, and not for the first time, how often people had failed to tell her such in the past.  Yes, her hair had been wild, but that was to be expected with her living in England.  The English hardly knew how to properly treat hair like his granddaughters. They were used to  loose curls and waves, not the coils of his people.  But outside of that minor flaw, his granddaughter was something of a beauty.  Her complexion flawless, her features lovely, eyes neither too close no too far apart, her nose proud with just the slightest  of upturns.  Her mouth, perhaps, was lacking a little fullness but only in comparison to Kebe and Chika. 

No, Hermione was beautiful, and it made him just a touch upset that she reacted so positively to a compliment that in his eyes was lacking, even if he had given it. Shaking his head, he  offers her his arm, and takes them to the back of the manor house. He both loved and hated this house. It was equal to the  Governor of  British Cameroon’s home, and that was painful. Kebe had hated the house, wishing to move into one smaller and more in line with ancestral tradition. But the council had insisted. They had to be on equal footing visually and legally with the imperialist bastards. 

Neither of them had grown to love the obscenely large home, nor it’s sprawling  grounds. He pauses just outside the wards, producing the  international portkey. It would be a rough one, taking them directly to the Potter estate. The tribe’s elves had already taken the trunk, and Akuchi resolved to speak with Hermione about  the elves and kobolds when they returned home. 

She has expressed on more than one occasion that the kobolds and elves should have freedom.  A notion that absolutely did not go over well with either party. Something he’d let lie too long out of a desire not to have to have an argument with the girl.  It was however, needed now they were heading to England where Elves were  widely and  prevalently bonded to families. 

“Hold on tight, Hermione. And close your eyes, this will be uncomfortable.”

“Hopefully not as uncomfortable as apparition,” her murmur garners a laugh from him  before he speaks the password to activate the portkey.

They arrive with  a soft whoosh of air and a displacement of magic that alerts the occupants of the warded property to the arrival of their guests.  It was an old ward, one with multiple layers and uses. It told Dorea much of the young woman she was about to meet for the first time. 

Mrs. Potter was older, but she knew her son. Lily had stopped being a center piece in his letters beside his marauder friends almost immediately with the new school year. He spoke of the trauma on the train, and how he’d felt a bit off afterward. No doubt the trauma of the young woman’s arrival caused a bit of a speed up in his magical maturation that swiftly approached with the end of winter. He spoke of the young woman often.  Which was quite interesting and a breath of fresh air for Dorea after five years about hearing about Lily flowers with vibrant fire kissed hair. 

James was many things, but subtle he was not, not when he spoke or wrote to her. In some  respects , Dorea counted it as a blessing. Such as now. While she has no idea what the young  woman, she’s set to host looks like, outside what must be her coloration, she knows this is a woman of great talent and intelligence . A gentle knock on the door has the elder woman standing, and she watches as her son jolts from his seat with a gentle smile playing on her face. 

His hands are running through his hair, a nervous tick many mistoo k. He was hoping it was Hermione, she didn’t have to be a  legimens or seer to know that. Sirius is slower to abandon their game of exploding snap, and his lips are curved into a smirk of sorts. 

“Mrs. Potter, Young Master James and Sirius,  yous guests Miss Hermione and  Mr. Akuchi Eze have arrived!” Their door elf, smartly dressed in a little shirt that he’d picked himself draws the pair into the drawing room, and Dorea feels her breath catch. 

The young woman is slight,  not thin, and certainly not lacking curve, but she is petite, small in comparison to her grandfather who equals  C harlus in height. Her hair is hidden away by a truly lovely headpiece, gold en and purple fabric molded into tasteful design atop her head. Her face is clean of  makeup , and her skin glows in the gentle candle and firelight . Her eyes are gorgeous, the color of dark caramel candies and they positively sparkle when they land on James. 

It’s clear the young woman has to fight to keep herself from throwing herself at the young man. It’s in the tense lines of her body as she shoves herself tighter against her grandfather’s side. For a moment or two, her eyes don’t leave James before Sirius calls her attention. 

“Well, well, this is quite a different look for you, Eze.” 

Dorea doesn’t need to be facing him to know he’s leering in that way he does to throw girls off. She’s pleasantly amused to see Hermione throw her shoulders, back, her eyes flashing and  a smirk touching her mouth. 

“How is it my fault that I was run off before properly finishing dressing that day, hm, Black? Besides, I wouldn’t dishonor my house by being anything but perfectly put together.” She sniffs and tilts her head just so, and Dorea can’t help but chuckle at the  way Hermione looks down her nose at Dorea’s taller adopted son. If she didn’t know better, she would say the girl had Black blood in her, the look is an amazing imitation of her niece, Narcissa. 

Sirius laughs loudly, that bark of a laugh of his, and practically tears the girl from her grandfather’s hold. He hugs her familiarly, which is well received by Hermione, and when he sets her on her feet, James is there. 

“Mr. Eze, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Dorea takes this moment to distract the Patriarch of Hermione’s house, to give her sons a slight reprieve. Her hand is extended, and the elder man makes a sweeping bow, catching her hand and placing a kiss on her knuckles. 

“The pleasure is ours, I’m sure. Hermione hasn’t stopped writing to  those two young men for more than a few days at a time. You raised wonderful sons, blessings upon your house.” 

“You’re too kind. It’s good to know they treated your granddaughter respectfully and helped her in her time of need. It’s a dark time indeed when children are run down on their way to school.” 

“Too right, Mrs. Potter. Too right , children should not be the ones caught in the crosshairs of someone so foul. ”

Hermione was swept into a bear hug from Sirius and it reminds her of hugging Ron. Oh , they had fought like cat and dog for the majority of their friendship, but his hugs were some of the best besides the ones she’d received from Harry.  She barely has time to say anything before James is there taking her out of the tall swarthy boy’s arms and pulling her into a tight embrace. 

“James, oh hello!” She laughs softly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and taking a breath.  He smelled of crisp winter air, mixed with a touch of parchment and something deeper. It was  inviting, she could happily keep this scent as a candle in her room. 

“Hello there, Princess. Look at you – I hardly recognize you! You look like a goddess.” Her cheeks warm and she ducks her head shyly under the compliment as she’s released, neither of them really paying attention to the rest of the room. 

“Hush. Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Mr. Potter.”

“Mr. Potter is my father, Miss Eze. And since when have we been so formal, eh?” 

“Fine.  _ James _ , flattery will get you  nowhere with me.”

“Good thing I wasn’t just speaking empty words at you then,” the smirk and the cocksure way he leans back slightly have Hermione thrown off. He thought she looked like a goddess? Really? 

Her teeth dig into her bottom lip and vibrant hazel eyes drop from her own. It’s shocking to see. She knows what that means, he’s looking at her mouth. His eyes didn’t drop far enough for it to be her bust or her waist or even her hips. A zing of pride and attraction  zip through her. He was quite pretty, in that tall dark and chiseled way. Her head tilts as she gives him a good look over, trying not to be obvious about it. The effort isn’t well spent. 

Akuchi notices the quiet that has fallen over the pair and gives them a cursory glance that immediately is followed up with another. He feels his brows raise up and his eyes move back to their Hostess, who has just been joined by their host. 

“Evening, apologies, I was in my potions lab. Sorry, love, I had to check something.”

“Of course, you did,” the frustration in Dorea’s voice is tempered by the adoration in her eyes and Akuchi can’t help but appreciate it. He’d spoken to Kebe like that a time or two when she was elbow  deep in books, looking for laws that would debunk the precedent or some such the opposing faction of the council had presented a law under. 

“Miss Eze and her Grandfather have arrived. Mr. Eze, my husband, Charlus. Charlus, Mr. Akuchi Eze.” Her hand moves in a  delicate manner between them and Akuchi offers his hand. It’s shaken thoroughly and the man who looks exactly like his son grins widely in welcome. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Eze, or may I call you Akuchi?”

“Please, such formality, I think, would be wasted.” He takes the opportunity to indicate their children who are still quiet. Charlus’ eyes shift in the same direction and the paler man laughs heartily while shaking his head. 

“ Always knew he’d go after someone thoroughly above his station. He’s been writing to us about our esteemed Granddaughter you know. She’s got grand ideas and opinions. If she makes half of them come to fruition the world will be a damn sight better off.” 

“Thank you. She takes after my Kebe in such things. Her grandmother, my late wife, was fiercely dedicated to the betterment of the human race. Our continent has been somewhat of a mess in the last few centuries. Her mother also did her best to see it to rights. Perhaps our Hermione will do what they could not.”

“She seems a bright young woman, far beyond her years. She has an exceptional hand, and while her letter was a touch awkward, I’m sure it’s only because she’s never written to me before. I hope to see her flourish on the world stage.” Dorea waves them toward the settee and divan off to the side. “Let’s sit, shall we? ”

“You know, I’ve got a galleon that they take another two minutes to realize they’re looking at one another like Christmas Pudding.”

“Charlus!”

“I will take that bet, Charlus.  But I say it is only about thirty seconds or so.  Young Mr. Black has his eyes on them.” 

Sirius was honestly surprised at James. James hardly ever took notice of  girls, what with his fixation on Lily and even after that had abated this year, he still hadn’t really taken notice of anyone. Hermione walks into the room, however, and it’s like she’s part bloody Veela keyed specifically for James. It’s a bit hilarious if he’s being honest, because it isn’t as if Hermione is any better. 

Yes she acknowledged his presence, returned his hug and greeting, but her eyes were for James when he came into her orbit. They were  gravitating around one another, even after he got between them and made sure they were all exchanging pleasantries with the adults. Sirius might be a shit son by Walburga’s standards, but he knew how this was supposed to go. Chat a bit, get to know the host and the guest while the elves squared away the rooms and moved what was appropriate. 

Dinner would be served when the elves had it all squared away and conferred with the Kobolds. A little  more of the usual polite chatter and then a bit of dessert and it would be off to bed for everyone. It would take hours and he hadn’t been looking forward to it really. This was the boring bit. But  Hermione is proving to blow away all his  expectations and is keeping his best mate quite hooked upon her every word. 

“ Ọlaedo is nothing like Gringotts! Gringotts is positively  useless in comparison, no offense meant. Dark Goblins, as the English have labeled them, are shrewder and have a different sort of rapport with  wizard kind . It’s honestly quite embarrassing, when I first went to Gringotts I found it to be unwelcoming and I didn’t really like Goblins.  I didn’t even open an account, preferring to just keep exchanging my furu efu pounds for galleons. It’s a terrible exchange rate but –“

“Your magic didn’t like them, Nwa. ”

“Yes Papa, you’ve mentioned. But you never explained why.  So called Dark Goblins aren’t much different to those that reside here and in continental Europe –“

“That is where you are wrong. While  you’ve been excelling at an amazing rate with our tuition on your subjects, you’ve still a long way to go. Dark Goblins are mired in the wild magic that spawned wizard kind, all Goblins are truthfully, but  look at it from a genetic stand point, yes?”

“All right, not much is known about genetics, especially in the magical world –“

“Some parts. There are several groups of furu efu scientists that have theories that make magical sense.  So, we have here, two – no three, apologies young Sirius, - magical bloodlines. James is the product of two, his mother and sirius  are part of one contributing line, and his father obviously the other, you are a direct descendant of myself and your grandmother –“

“And you are the product of two different lines –“

“You get ahead of yourself, Hermione Adaeze, we are focusing on you and James and Sirius.”

“Apologies.” 

He waves a hand and Sirius, along with Dorea and Charlus watch with interest the interplay between guardian and ward. “Now, your magic, is from a line that is anchored in the cradle of magic, the tether is strong, and  renewed with each marriage and birth upon our soil. Your tether is not as strong as my own, as you were born in England, but it is still stronger than James’. “

Akuchi trains his eyes on James and notes how interested the young man is in all this. That bodes well for any continued friendship between houses. The young man is intelligent and not lackadaisical, at least he doesn’t seem that way presently. “Now, James’ family is far removed from the original tethers that wild magic made with Wizard kind.  It is not a problem, really, magic flows and  ebbs in all areas of our world, but it is strongest at the ley lines and within Africa.  His family has strong magic, the magic here is strong, I assume we are near a ley conduit or a line outright?” 

This was directed at Charlus and Dorea, who blink  before nodding together. “Yes,” Charlus responds at length. “We still practice the old  ways and have a ley conduit in a cleansed space for blessing rituals and the like, you’ll see it in several days. The lin e that feeds it is several hours away from here it also feeds the school, Hogwarts.” 

“Ah, well my estimation of the school went up a bit in that case. Now, Hermione  Adaeze . Because  the feed their magic into rituals and have a ley conduit they are still fairly mired in wild magic themselves. But it’s different than ours. It’s colder, more distant to us. You no doubt have noticed a difference since coming here?” 

“Well, yes, but I thought it was simply because we were in an area that is physically and geographically predisposed to being colder. It’s not frigid but I’m reacting as if I were in the alps.” 

“Mm. The magic reacts to you differently now that you’ve been on your ancestral lands. It’s a difficult thing to really explain properly and especially in a language not my own. Magic conforms, not unlike people do, to the place  it inhabits. While the magic is in fact no less primal than ours is, we feel it’s call less. It’s been attuned to the nature here, and it is a bit gentler than what we are exposed to.” 

“That actually makes an exceptional amount of sense.” Dorea is the one to interject into the conversation. “I had occasion to meet several wizards from the continent and elsewhere over the years.  I worked before James came into our lives, in charm development and research.  Everyone’s magic has a feel to it, but I noticed that those from the southern climes felt – distinctly different to my own. It was a more powerful spell in their hands somehow,  or perhaps simply potent in a different manner. I never thought to look into it, too focused on the spell creation itself.”

“Potions often have different results in different areas of the world too,” Charlus muses, and James locks in on his father with interest. While he didn’t have the talent for brewing his dad did, it still interested him to hear him speak of it. “ Most people assume it has to do with the potency of the ingredients being used – where you have access to fresh versus where you must import unless you’re a dab hand at charms or have a benefactor who can create a greenhouse to support the supplies you need.  But it could have something with the depth and type of magic you have access too. Wild magic is often assumed to be what the fair folk and other creatures of magical descent are  the bearers of.”

He pauses and Akuchi chooses that moment to step in. “While the name is correct, the ideas behind the use are wrong. Wild magic is simply ambient – everywhere, yes? Our magic is trained from often youth to behave certain ways. We exhibit less and less raw magic as we are trained. This has a  two-fold reaction. Our raw magic is the most natural our magic ever is – and is not unlike that which house elves and goblins and the like have providence over. The training of our magic  creates a dissonance. Magic is meant to simply be used, the training makes it more.” 

“So , you’re saying that we weaken ourselves a bit by forcing it into shape?” James leans forward in interest, and Sirius notes the way Hermione’s eyes slide to him, a spark of something in those whiskey-caramel  colored depths before they slide to her grandfather, eager for his answer. 

“Yes and no. Let us use my dear Hermione as an example. For the first few weeks under the care of her tutors, her magic was a touch unreliable, too powerful and then barely sputtering as she got used to focusing it through herself, rather than the European  wand. Wands can both amplify and dampen magic. Hermione now doesn’t need a wand, she likely would blow one up if she were to attempt it’s use, and a Staff would be her only recourse should she need a focus at all. One large enough and with its own ambient magic would be the only thing she can focus through. I wanted her to be more in line with the ways of the tribe. Ours is not one that conforms to the new vogue.” 

“Fascinating. So, you have no wand either? You find your spells to be equal or greater in potency to most of the wizards you meet?” 

“I don’t posses a wand, Mrs. Potter. However, my spells  can be judged as both more powerful and less depending on a number of things. My expertise is in healing, and self-transfiguration. Compared to my Kebe I was quite weak, her magic lent itself to  charms of all natures to include jinxes and hexes and alchemy. She was a demon when it came to  arithmancy as well. A quarter of the family properties were re-warded by her, and they still hold today. Compared to you, my charms would seem less potent unless they were for the use of coaxing plants of my region to thrive here –“ 

A bell breaks the conversation and Sirius counts his blessings. While he was interested, he was a bit desperate for lighter, easier to comprehend conversation. He wasn’t a prodigy at charms, but he did have a certain ease with transfiguration of all sorts. Still, he felt on the outs of the conversation and that was never fun. 

“Ah, apologies, it seems time has gotten away from us all with this wonderful academic conversation!” Dorea looks delighted and Sirius  isn’t at all surprised. Mum P. had always had a certain love of academics, even if she was every inch a Black witch.  Every inch a society wife just  shy of being a Noble society wife on Pop P’s arm. 

“Oh, no apologies necessary! This is the most stimulating conversation.” Hermione’s praise has the elders of the group chuckling as they stand, and James  in a bit of a surprise move smiles at her. 

“Merlin am I glad mum invited you, Princess. I haven’t seen a conversation like this in ages – at least one so easy to follow along to with Mum and Dad.  When their colleagues come for dinner it feels a bit like I’m still ten years old and unable to do more than accidental magic.” He offers her his arm, and Sirius feels his brows climb up his forehead. Did Prongs even realize what he was doing, how he was acting?

“I highly doubt that, James Potter. You’re smarter than you let on. Remember, you write habitually to me and sometimes you give yourself away, you as well Sirius.” 

“Now, now, Eze, don’t go dragging me into this. I like to hide my intellect, it keeps people from expecting too much from me.” He drawls falling into step with them as the adults lead them toward the dining room. 

“Others or yourself,” she asks tartly, favoring him with a look that made him frown. 

“Does it matter? I mean, if I live up to my family name –“

“I’m not saying you should, the Black reputation  precedes the lot of you, but your Aunt, Mrs. Potter, isn’t a blood maniac, neither, by your own  confession, is your Uncle Alphard. Clearly Mrs. Potter is brilliant magically and you shouldn’t go hiding it  just, so you can avoid recognition as a Black.” Hermione waves her hand, not realizing they’d all paused. 

“You’re in a singularly unique position, as an outcast heir.  You can  found your own house, and it would still have claim to noble title, you can form your own family magic if you foster your own enough in the next few years –“

“I don’t plan on  founding a house, Hermione.” He feels a bit strangled. Him… and Lily founding a  _ house _ a  _ family line _ . 

“And why the blazes not?!” Hermione demands, untangling herself from James, her hands settling on her hips. “You’re powerful, dedicated to  doing right, and you could help change the landscape here in Britain if you did!  Any witch  you’re to att r ac t will have to be of a strong personality and brilliant to keep you interested, Sirius Orion Black. Don’t do yourself or your witch a disservice by not making the world a better place for the future generations.” 

“Oh, and you think  _ I’m _ someone who would do that, do you?  A shamed aristocrat son who has no idea conforming to his mother’s wishes –“

“Hang your harpy of a mother! She tossed you out, and a far better suited family took you in. The Potters are  a good family, Sirius and you fit in with them near seamlessly. If you were a little shorter, and your hair a little rowdier, you’d be James’  _ twin _ . ”

“No need to get mean about it, Eze –“

“Oh, shut it. You owe it to yourself to build a family you’re proud of, Sirius.  A House that you’re proud of, a magical legacy you would happily embrace were it to be passed to you. ”

“Hermione…” 

“No. You deserve that Sirius. Don’t ever think you don’t. I’ve written to you enough that I know that and even in those few weeks of staying at Hogwarts,  I spoke to you enough to get the measure of you. You’re a good wizard and Britain needs more people like you and James and the Lupins and the Potters to tip this backwards society on it’s head!” 

“Well,” Charlus breaths, thoroughly inspired by the young woman. “James, I must commend you. Your friends have only become more interesting and  a honor to  the magic they were born to over the years. I daresay we will see amazing thigs from Miss Eze in the future.” 

The witch in question blushes, shrinking a little as she faces the adults. She’s bolstered a bit by the fact her grandfather looks like a proud peacock. She doesn’t, however, know what to do about the way Dorea is looking at her. Mrs. Potter is an enigma still. Did she approve or disapprove and really why did it matter either way.

“Your father is quite right, Jamie dear. Now, let’s sit and eat before the Kobolds think we’ re unsatisfied with their graciously provided meal.” 

Hermione is stationed between James and Sirius, with Mrs. Potter and her grandfather opposite them. The meal is started without much fanfare, soup and a light salad to get them going.  She’d hardly ever been a fan of meals that went on and on, especially at Hogwarts. The food was hearty there, made to keep children grown strong and moving. But it did little to keep those same children from getting a little  _ too _ well nourished in her particular  opinion. 

She was too slight of build to really pack on the pounds unless that poundage was all muscle.  Oh she’d loved the array of desserts offered each night, even if she’d only take a little bit every third day of the week or so. Treats were meant to be treats, not regular staples at meals. Something her mother and father had  taught her long before Hogwarts. 

It would seem the Potters were of the same mindset. Each course they had was light thought the over all affect was being pleasantly full. And dessert happened to be a delightful fresh  sherbet in the daintiest of dishes that Hermione had ever seen. It made the amount look far larger than it was and that was more than fine by her. 

“This has been delicious, thank you so much, Mrs. Potter. Please extend my thanks to your family Kobold.” 

“What delightful manners,” Dorea can’t help herself. Most youths would simply scarf down their food and ask to be  let free of the table as soon as possible. Pettigrew certainly did. A pity, really, the boy did himself a disservice with his manners and lazy attitudes.  “I will pass along your thanks, I believe our dear Miriiska will be beside herself to know a visiting witch appreciates her so.” 

“Our Kobold, he and his family are wonderful, if a touch territorial of their hearth. I wouldn’t dream of belittling their contribution to the family in any way.  I’m lucky I was allowed by the family to make the chocolate for Remus each month.”

“Yes, Jaime said you’d given him some as well. I was impressed! Not many young  women take the time to learn to cook, especially not those slated to be head of their house.  You’re quite an enigma, Miss Eze. A pleasant one, however. Especially if you manage to give a little of that special something to each of my boys. They need it, you see, they are far too preoccupied with pranks and quidditch to think about the future.”

Her sly smile is missed by the younger men of the table, but not by the elders. Sirius may slink down in his chair a bit, still thoroughly dressed down by Hermione on the subject of the future, but James, throws back his shoulders and shakes his head. 

“Mum that’s not true at all! I mean, I love the pranking and the quidditch,  bonding with my mates and keeping our friendship strong is important. But I haven’t been shirking with my studies. I decided I wanted to take Dad’s place on the Wizengamut when he thought I was  ready and take a mastery course for Law. Before Hermione, I was a bit of a fancy, nothing really nailed down in my head. I keep reading the papers and seeing what’s going on and I can’t very well sit back and do nothing.  Four witches have gone missing since September, you know, and a half dozen wizards because of this Dark Lord, I want – I want to make sure  that Britain is safer in the future.” 

Hermione blinks, listening to James and watching his face shift from mild discomfort at telling his mother his plans with guests at the table, to quiet determination.  It’s – well – it’s very attractive, to see that kind of drive on his face. Which is also mildly horrifying at the same time. James Potter was meant for Lily. Though, her eyes slide to Sirius, if Lily responded to Sirius’ advances, and James wasn’t mad, that meant James wasn’t meant for Lily this time around. 

It’s all so  utterly confusing and that was with the memory dulling she’d undergone. It had taken an oath of secrecy to make sure her tribal elder couldn’t be questioned on the subject, something she felt awfully about, and a serious conversation with her grandfather on the nature of leaving her privacy be, but it was done. She was more or less safe to be in this time around those who might take information from her without her knowledge. 

“ That’s quite the plan, young man. You sound like our Hermione. She looked utterly terrified and unmoored when I told her about her position as heir within the tribe. But then she got a look similar to yours on her  face and declared that she would do it. That she was  living, and she wanted to make sure her tribe was cared for. ” They make a good pair, is silent ly acknowledged by all present adults.  Time would tell if anything came of that, however. 

“Yeah, Princess? You going to change the world a bit?” James turns to face Hermione, a spark in his eyes that  sends her stomach fluttering. Swallowing, because suddenly her throat is like parchment, the darkly hued witch nods sharply.

“Absolutely. I’ve got a few projects in mind in the short term , and in the long term it really depends on what partner I take as to where my  ten-year plan goes. ” 

“Partner, eh?” Sirius pipes up from their opposite end, and Hermione knows in an instant where this is headed. “Got a liking for Bird’s, Eze?”  Dorea’s soft admonishment does little to the bold Gryffindor. He doesn’t rescind the question, chin jutting out in a stubborn manner. 

She draws herself up and her  magic slides over her skin. It’s annoying he wanted to toss that out into the open so crassly. Ihouma may have been bald about her love of her wife, but that didn’t mean it was dinner conversation! “ For your information,  _ Black _ , I value a person’s mind – you know, their intelligence, their personality, and over all our compatibility  more than I value their  physical form. That bits just a bonus really. I’ll have you know, Sirius Orion, that my great-great-great-grandmother  took a wife, and they had a passel of children together,  _ through magic _ . Any partner I take will be my compliment, no matter their gender.” 

James and Sirius blink at the young witch  sat between them. Her cheeks are rosy, and her fingers are producing little arcs of magic between them, but she hardly looked upset.  Determined – absolutely, but upset? Not at all. She hardly even looked embarrassed. 

One look at her grandfather, however, had James wincing. Sighing  audibly, he shakes his head. “Apologies, Mr. Eze. Sirius is well known for being a little bolder than his position in life would normally allow for –“

“It’s fine, young  man. I’m surprised, but not truly. You’re sharp as tacks and Sirius clearly takes joy in making people feel off kilter. It will take more than that, though, to put my Hermione off her game.  He looks a bit dazed, actually. Best after dinner entertainment I’ve seen in decades.” Her grandfather laughs, showing off his brilliant white teeth, warm brown eyes crinkling. 

Dorea, however, is not appeased and she sighs in a  put upon manner. “Shall we  adjourn to the library for some tea before we retire for the evening? James mentioned that Hermione often spoke of boo ks she’d read or mentioned something that was important to a lesson she’d had in some book or another. I thought she might enjoy –“

“Oh, Mrs. Potter, I’m sorry to interrupt but I would  _ love _ to see the Potter Library!” Hermione is leaning forward,  an eager look on her face. 

“Come along,  you delightful young woman, let’s let Dorea and  your grandfather wrangle the boys, I will show you to the library.” Charlus grabbed the chance to get to see Hermione in her preferred habitat with as little influence from the others as possible. He saw that look in Dorea’s  eyes, and saw a familiar  but vastly more mature version of a look on James’ face. He stood and helped Hermione from her seat, offering her an arm to commence guiding her through the Manor house. 

The library had been a joint effort of each Potter family head over the generations. They and their wife or Consort or both, took it upon themselves to expand the family  in an enduring fashion. Magical education had been steadily declining for the last two centuries in Magical Britain. The number of useful electives offered the children had been dwindling and now there  were, but a handful offered.  And truly only perhaps three of them could be of any use in the next generations job searches. So, the Potter library came into play. 

Each Head couple expanded the library on a specific subject they wished to pursue after their Masteries had been achieved. Charlus had chosen to expand the  library on the subjects of Potions and Magical creatures, while Dorea focused on magical theory and spell creation, all of which were fairly vast subjects. 

Walking the young heiress into the room, he found himself pleased with the progress the generations had made. Her gasp and the look of wonder on her face was more than  complimentary. The young witch fairly shook with the desire to go pick out a dozen books, of that Charlus felt sure. 

“This is amazing.”  Three words that said so much about the witch it was a bit ridiculous. 

He releases her arm with a  smile and directs her just off to the side. “Now,  we’ve a book registry  a bit like that which the muggle libraries use, but all together more magical. The cards are all in alphabetical order by subject matter. Each section is labeled just here, ” He  brushes a finger across the silver letters over the catalogue drawers. “When you find the book you’re looking for, tap your wand twice to the  card and give a gentle accio. The book will fly from it’s proper place for you.”

“ Oh, that’s brilliant! Absolutely wonderful!” Hermione’s smile is absolutely  blinding, and she is quick to start looking over the catalogue.  The subject matter is quite varied – they had a little bit of everything it seemed, even fiction and poetry.  For a start, because sh e  wanted to see just what the Potter’s had to offer in this wonderful place, she opened the drawer labeled  self-transfiguration. It was when she kept pulling,  _ and pulling _ the drawer open, that she knew this would be her favorite place over the Yuletide visit.

In no less than three minutes Hermione was on a n overstuffed couch, her delicate slipper shoes on the floor and her feet tucked beside her, a stack of books within her reach and one in her hands. Charlus  was amused beyond belief. She’d found what she wanted, summoned it and gotten comfortable as if Potter Manor was her own. Which, one day, it very well might be, if those looks Jaime had been given her could b e counted as indicative of the future. 

“Akuchi, please, on behalf of my wayward sons –“ sons who, by the time she’s cut off by the elder Wizard have taken off toward the library. 

“No, no, Mrs. Potter, Dorea, they are a delight and haven’t crossed any boundaries as of yet. They are Hermione’s friends, some of the few she has, they are given leeway because of that – by her. Young Mr. Black came close to insulting her, but she took him in hand quite nicely. She has a mothering nature about her, doesn’t she?” 

Dorea could only nod, surprise in her trade mark grey eyes of the House of Black.  Had this been her own father, he would be threatening the boys and their parents within an inch of their lives if not dangerously close to cursing them out right. Akuchi is old, she can see it with the pure white of his hair, anyone could,  but his  laid-back manner is misleading. She has to figure it out. 

“This is against my nature to be so bald, but how is it you’re fine with how  _ liberal  _ Sirius is? How free he is with Hermione.” 

“Hermione is of age, Mrs. Potter. And while I am still her Patriarch, truthfully,  in short order, she will outrank me on so many stages it will utterly floor you. Hermione is a headstrong girl, and one who can take care of herself – hopefully in any arena one might meet her in. That is my hope, my aim, with the continuation of her education.  I watch the world, you see, my Kebe did when she was alive, and we saw what Grindelwald did, we saw what the lost dictator did to your furu efu community. I won’t leave her at a disadvantage if another Grindelwald comes around in her lifetime. That and my Kebe would have my hide if I tried to lord over her in any manner. Not to mention, your boys are barely flirting. Sirius likes to see if he can toss her off kilter.  James doesn’t quite know what to do with Hermione yet.” 

“Don’t you want her to take a husband from the tribe?” 

“Why should she be so restricted?  The problem with purity as you  know it, is it breeds the strength out of your line. I am  from a different tribe , I am not from the Igbo tribe, I am from  the Yo ru ba tribe . There was no contact between my line and Kebe’s until we married, and we did so in magic. I have only known her, she only knew me.” 

Dorea bobs her head, speechless. She hadn’t anticipated such  an answer. Breeding the power from their lines. That made so much sense that it almost shamed her. She and Charlus were not closely related as she could recall, but she would be checking over the black family tree for the sake of knowing. Sirius – if he married Lily, would be taking new power into his line, especially if he created a new house of Black, or perhaps the house of Evans.  Their children would be powerful. 

She can’t help but think of Hermione and James joining. She wasn’t sure James could be married in magic, perhaps she ought to ask him, but those two together. Just watching them answer as they had during dinner had been telling. They were well matched.  The greeting gave more weight to it. James watched her like his favorite dessert an she looked at him much like Dorea imagines she looks at Charlus. 

“ I see. I – I can’t help but hope, in light of your theory, in light of seeing them around one another, that James catches your Hermione’s eye. I think they are well suited.” 

Akuchi chuckles, shrugging his shoulders “Oh they are. Anyone with eyes can see it. I don’t love the idea of her marrying an Englishman, I have history with  the Lost who came to my land , as most of the tribes do from my country, but if he is who she wants, he is who she will have.” 


	11. Chapter 11

“Blimey, Princess, you just took the place over.” James  cant help the way he smiles at Hermione, seeing her so happily ensconced off toward the side of the library. Truly, he thinks she fits here, among the  books and the rich brown wood that made up the various cases.  She looked at ease, comfortable, like this place was hers. 

He’d like it to be hers. 

Which where did that come from?  Hermione was far too important for the likes of him, and hadn’t he already learned where hopeless  crushes got him? Five years of chasing after Evans had blinded him to Sirius’ feelings, toward  _ Lily’s  _ feelings. Chances were if he became infatuated with  Hermione , he would become blind to her feelings for others as well. 

It wasn’t worth the risk. Hermione was too brilliant to lose as a friend.  When they were older, perhaps they could pledge allegiance to one another, their houses making history with such an alliance of friendship. But love, love from him hasn’t got a chance. Not with her. 

“I was encouraged to,” her eyes flick up from the page, and he  chuckles. 

“Didn’t say you weren’t wanted here. I’m just surprised. You look like you’ve always been here, right there on that couch.” 

“I think you might have notice if I had been,” Hermione chirps, flicking a page as her eyes drop. “I do eat regularly you know, someone would have noticed needing to do the shop more often.” 

“I doubt it. You’re so small, you would barely make a dent in my snack stash if you were here for a whole month!” 

Her eyes lift and meet his, a slight frown pulling at her lips. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or some backhanded way of telling me I’m too thin.” 

James faulters, where had she gotten the  idea, she could be too thin? He’d never dare say that. She was beautiful, is beautiful, even covered in blood!  “You’re perfect, Hermione.  I don’t think you could ever not be.” 

Brown eyes blink at him, confusion in them before it clears after a few moments. It’s quiet between them, in the library, not even a fire’s crackling to keep them company.  Her hand  moves and pats the couch beside her. There’s no shy, come sit with me, no demand of his presence, just an offer.  One he takes without much thought,  taking a few strides before settling down beside her. 

“What are you looking at?” 

“Self-Transfiguration. It’s quite an interesting art –“

“Yeah,  becoming an Animagi has a strong base in transfiguration. It’s intense and complicated but I’ve heard well worth the effort.” 

“Oh? Do you have plans on making the transformation?” She tilts her head just so, and a curl can just barely be seen attempting escape from her headwrap. He’s oddly enthralled by that, and nods absent mindedly. 

“How far have you gotten? I’ve  got my mandrake leaf already, actually. It’s a bother, and I find myself acting a bit strangely now that I’ve had it in a week.” 

“I –“ James pauses, chewing his lip a moment looking at her. Really looking at her, taking her all in. She’s leaning toward him, not touching, but close, like soon she’ll be soaking in his warmth. Her eyes are sharp, he almost fancies that light brown of her eyes, the whiskey parts, are glowing. She’s got  a laser like focus on him, and James  isn’t much inclined t l ying to her. Something about her has him feeling like he might jump out of his skin. 

Had it been anyone but Hermione he’d put distance between them. But, for the moment, he doesn’t. Instead he finishes his thought. “Promise you won’t tell, but I’ve already done it, Sirius too.” 

Her smile is slow, eyes flashing in a fashion that has him swallowing hard. What is it about her that makes him want to run away and just lay back and surrender right now?  None of their conversation from just a few moments earlier re -c rosses his mind as she leans forward, resting her cheek on his shoulder. 

“Brilliant. What are you?” 

“A  Scottish Stag .” 

“Ah, aggressive then, but not a predator.” 

“Definitely not, I can hold my own, however.” 

“No do u bt in my mind,” Hermione fairly purrs the words and sniffs delicately. He smells good,  like crisp fresh air and a bit of leather? She knows that she is a predator. Sly and opportunistic,  she liked her space but wanted attention as well, just from  _ certain _ people, not everyone. 

James swallows again, shifting just a touch, wondering where the rest of the group has gotten to . It’s not often that he’s left unchaperoned with a Witch in his own house. His mother is too proper, and his father happy to follow his wife’s lead. Plus, Sirius could hardly be counted on to actually stay away when James got a witch he wanted within his sights. 

“What’re you then, have you seen your form?” 

“Not yet. Too soon, but I have an inkling. It’s right there under my skin, watching, waiting for me to be ready, to make more of an effort to find her.” 

He likes the way she sounds like this, he decides abruptly. She’s all low and just for him, pitch and tone clearly meant for the conversation to stay just between them.  Not like when she’s  in front of his parents or even the rest of the Marauders. Then she was louder, her voice just touched with that smokey rasp of hers. Now that’s all he can hear. 

He feels a bit like he’s had too much firewhiskey, his throat dry as if that’s all he’s been drinking without any water in between.  He’d been shy of fifteen when they started their transformation process, he and the boys.  He had no idea how to handle anyone in the throes of having their personality traits exacerbated.  Sure, he could handle Sirius, Sirius was a  _ dog _ , man’s best friend, loyal, true, a bit silly and generally wanted everyone’s attention. Peter had been  squirrelly and hidden more often than not when he could get away with it.  Furtive, but playful when he felt like it. 

James was well aware he had been the prickliest of the bunch. His temper had been right there ready to go off at the smallest slight.  No one could get within a meter of his bed or bedroom without him pitching a silent fit. It had been a strange month, that was for sure. 

But this is stranger still. The Hermione he knew was laid out in  letters and comprised of dressing down Sirius at dinner or their conversations when she’d been bedridden. Face with the woman who could get in his space, who exuded  sensuality and danger was hard to mesh into the picture he’d already got of her. 

Sweet Hermione, bald and forthright Hermione, willing to do what it takes to do the right thing Hermione, was not  bedroom eyes and a layer of invitation to every word Hermione.  Hermione the girl he named Princess was untouchable . A variation of a trinket they were meant to protect and keep out of the view of those who would tarnish her, mistreat her, break her.  Hermione the Heiress of an entire tribe, is a literal Princess with curves, and soft skin, who smells of Bergamot and Roses and something that draws him in and gods he wants to lick her. 

“There you two are!” Sirius’ voice has James jerking away like he’s been electrocuted, and the  hazel eyed young man doesn’t miss the growl the interruption brings from Hermione. Her lips are curled a little and her eyes  _ do _ glow in the low light of the room. 

Sirius doesn’t notice for a moment but a handful of paces away from them and he stops, head tilting, eyes settling on Hermione. James can see his hackles rise and then the dominant rational human part of Sirius’ brain takes over. Grey eyes blink slowly, as if his brother-in-magic can’t believe what just happened and then slide toward him. 

James can only shrug helplessly. “A week into the leaf.” Sirius would understand then, he’s sure of it. 

And the taller  marauder does understand, his eyes widen and shifting to look over the slowly relaxing, but somehow tense witch. His head shakes, perfect hair moving just a bit around his head. “No bloody way that reaction is a week in.” 

“It’s not my fault we don’t like being come upon suddenly.” Hermione ’s voice is tart and sharp. Gone is the thread of invitation he’d heard just a few moments ago, gone is that smokey, darkness that he’d had aimed at him. Sirius is clearly intruding to her, and James is not entirely sure how he knows that. 

Standing up, he shoves his hands through his hair, pasting on a devil may care smile for Sirius. “She’s found the books on self-transfiguration. Reckon I won’t be able to pry her out of here before midnight. You  joining ?” 

Sirius sends him a look of bewilderment. James was going to sit here and read? It’s written with neon lights across the darker man’s face and James can’t even give an answer to that. Because he is going to sit here curled up with Hermione and read books he’d never looked twice at.  It wasn’t that he didn’t like to read, he just was too busy with the Marauders whenever they came over, and when he wasn’t being a kid, he was pestering his Father to teach him how to be like him, and when that wasn’t going  on he was usually getting snacks and going flying.  But right now, if books were where Hermione would stay, that was where he was staying too. 

“Nah mate. I think I’m going to write to the others, let them know  Eze is safe and sound and no one’s taken over her life and been writing us to keep us off the scent.” A devil may care smile is thrown their  way and  the former heir to the House of black saunters off to parts of Potter Manor unknown. Leaving James standing there, and Hermione rolling her eyes. 

“Sit down James. Did you want to read this with me, or were you going to get a book of your own? I’ve got a bit of a pile here –“

“I’ll read with you.” 

Page Break

Charlus had been  in the library the entire time. While his wife and Hermione’s grandfather seemed to be  speaking at length, viewing the Potter portraits, he was meant to keep an eye on the children. Though, the three of them are hardly  able to meet the definition of a child to any one’s interpretation. Sirius and James would be magically mature within  a handful of months, and Hermione no less than a year . Their cores would be ready for them to be classed as adults,  and the next seven years would be devoted to nurturing that potential. 

Still, he is standing guard. James would never miss treat a witch by his estimation. But he also never thought Walburga would go through with disowning the Heir of the House.  It wasn’t done and not so obviously. Then again, Walburga had been somewhat manic of late, and Orion more and more withdrawn from the day to day workings of society. 

Shaking his head, he puts thoughts of the Black family from his mind. He had Dorea and she was a blessing to his life and House. Dorea kept him on his toes, never lied to him when it came to things of import – he could hardly hold surprise parties or gifts against her – and had given him his wonderful Son. 

A son who has absolutely no idea how to respond to a witch that has  sharp wits and a will to exercise her agency it would seem. It amuses him to see James sit wide eyed looking slightly down at Hermione.  He can’t tell if James is remembering to breath or if he’s forgotten all about replenishing the air in his lungs as the young woman levels him with a scorching look. 

Truthfully, Charlus supposes he should be scandalized. However, he couldn’t be scandalized even if he wanted to try to be. Dorea was outspoken about her wants and desires.  It was part of what had brought her into his focus. She knew how to get what she wanted and made it clear that she would have those things – himself included. 

So to see his son being carefully pushed into a verbal corner was entertaining. Minerva McGonagall, a brilliant witch several years their junior, regaled them with stories of James’ antics in Hogwarts concerning the young lady known as  Lily Evans. Getting on top of tables to shout his love for her. Using fireworks,  _ tormenting _ her best friend. Minerva by no means abided that, nor did Charlus, but their censure seemed to do absolutely nothing in that regard. 

Then comes Hermione into James’ orbit and it’s as if a switch has been flipped.  Their magic sings when they’re near one another, a gentle hum that brushes over his aura. It’s a lovely thing to behold. Though, with the way James seems to be unable to make a move, Charlus is left to wonder if he will ever see a new  Mrs. Potter brought into the family. 

It’s nearing midnight when Charlus packs it in for the night. Hermione and James are still on their couch, a book between them . Between them in the farthest of senses. James had gotten  her, so she was leaning against his chest, one of his legs up on the couch , one arm along the back of the couch while the other took hold of the side of the book nearest the other hand. Hermione held the  opposite bit and they were really reading together. 

He pauses on his way to the door, watching them. If James went to turn a page too quickly, Hermione would just barely twitch her head for him not to, and the page would settle again. More often it is James who stops the page from turning too soon. 

Dorea and Charlus bid goodnight to Akuchi, assuring him there were chastity wards on the doors of the library, placed as Charlus had left. He seemed to not be a bit worried about it, stating his granddaughter would choose James or she wouldn’t. It was jarring for them as they retired to their bed. 

“So, what do you think of her, pet?” 

“Brilliant, remarkably so, and more opinionated than I ever dared to be.” Dorea speaks as she unwinds her hair from it’s  tight and formal bun, still black locks coming to tumble attractively around her shoulders. “And you?” 

“Magically compatible with our  J ames, and she’d be the one to lead the  relationship, I think.  She stunned him silent on several occasions. It was quite amusing to watch as I reminisced about you and I.” He  is methodical about undressing, placing things on his valet stand and placing the robes to be laundered. 

“Sirius doesn’t know what to do with them,” she confides as the pins are removed carefully and the brushing begins. 

“I can’t blame him.  Dor , those two make eyes at each other and lose themselves in their own little world more easily than I can remember us doing.” 

She laughs, eyeing him in the mirror of her vanity. Her curls are as inky black still as his wild hair is. There was just a touch of curl to that windswept hair, just enough it never wanted to lay flat. A  trait it seemed that would never leave the Potter family. To Dorea, her dearest husband was still as handsome as the day he blushingly asked her to Hogsmeade  in their sixth year. 

“While I would love to say that I find it hard to believe, James is like you and your father before you, love. He  falls as if he’s teetering at the edge of a mine shaft in Gringotts without a cart to catch him. That Hermione seems to be doing the same is good. I was beginning to worry for Jamie’s heart.” 

Charlus huffs, eyes rolling in false  indignation . He knew she wasn’t wrong. Potter men seemed to find the witch they wanted and then it was over. It might take a couple tries, depending on the generation, his great-grandfather courted  _ four _ witches before finding the one who stole his heart, but they always found their match.  “At least he came by the trait honestly, that’s all I can say on the matter. As for Hermione, if he chooses her, and she him – we’ll  be losing him to her. More than any other family loses their son to a wife.” 

“I know. She’s not just a noble, she’s going to run a magical community. However, that doesn’t stop James from doing his duty here.  He could  floo or portkey as needed for  Wizengam -“

“Love, you know that isn’t a real choice. They’d never  have time to see one another,  _ especially _ if James kept his seat in the commons.” 

“You heard him, Charlus. He wants to make this  part of the Magical world better.” She puts down her hair brush and turns on the tufted seat. “He won’t abandon the duty of the house.” 

“We’re an old House,  Dor , but we aren’t Noble. We could see that Sirius takes the Potter seat for a time, he wo n ’t have to worry about the Black seat, and you know while he hasn’t the wish to play politics with James behind the  scenes, he’d have the  training for it. He was meant for the house of Lords. ” 

“And if he marries that lovely little Muggleborn, he will have twice the fight of it.” Dorea takes a deep breath. These were the games that tried her the most, the w hat ifs and maybes made a person go  ‘round the twist if not careful.  “But it doesn’t do us a lick of a good to try and plan our  sons’ futures. We have a year yet to keep training them up for the society that will attempt to eat them alive.  A year before they can really  choose what or where they will go to live after this.” 

“Yes, a year or so before they leave Hogwarts. Come to bed, darling. We’ve got two weeks to watch James woo Hermione or not woo her. The same with Sirius and Lily. Plus, I’d love to know what Akuchi thinks of all of this. ”

Dorea  moves toward the bed, pulling back the covers and sliding under them. She doesn’t hesitate to move to Charlus’ side and slide into the space he’s created for her. His arm settles around her shoulders and her cheek settles against his collarbone. 

“Akuchi Eze is  not what I expected. He’s as brilliant as Hermione is, curious and well spoken. He disdains the muggles of years past, and with good reason, that nasty business of selling  _ people _ ! It’s abominable, as bad as those who use their house elf bond as a method of enslavement.  He finds his granddaughter  delightful and worries after her a great deal.” She nuzzles into his sleep shirt, taking a breath and reveling in the dark scent of his cologne. 

“Akuchi knows that Hermione is English raised and there will be a great deal of work for her to meet the tribal expectations. He’s exposing her in increments,  finding teachers and healers from within the tribe for her to speak to and work with. I don’t think there is a single tutor who isn’t of their tribe, actually.  He’s cunning enough to be a Slytherin, because he isn’t just exposing Hermione to the traditions and elders of their people, he’s exposing the elders to her. If the eldest and most respected take her as their Matriarch –“

“Then the rest will have little choice but to fall in line. So long, of course, that Hermione proves to work toward he betterment of all. Which, hearing her talk, is not a problem I believe anyone will find in her.” 

“Mm hm. She’s an idealist, but ambitious. Have you seen the way her eyes glint when she sees an opportunity to create change? The way she just told Sirius to form his own house – as if it should have been the first thing on his mind – I wanted to  say something about that being far from the norm. But I am sure she knows that, I’m sure that’s why she planed the idea in his head.  Sirius could  found a new ho u se, if his witch proved loyal enough and powerful enough. Can you imagine it?” 

“I can, truthfully.  I can see his motto being something along the lines of purity can kiss my line’s arse.” Mr. Potter deftly catches Dorea’s hand before she can smack him. 

“You’re terrible.” 

“You love me.” 

“That has absolutely no bearing on you being terrible, Charlus  Ignatius Potter!” 

Well past midnight Hermione and James had fallen asleep in the library. Her hair  falls over her shoulders, against James and the back of the couch, her book laying forgotten,  balancing precariously on their laps. James’ chin is tucked toward his chest , listing a bit to the side , nose barely  brushing the fabric of Hermione’s lost head wrap.  They are a pretty picture, one of contrasting puzzle pieces that fit together best when they aren’t awake to deny it. 

That, at least, is how the Head elf of the Potter elves, Brigita feels about th e pair. She had come into the room intent on replacing the books she could feel were out of their places.  She’d found the young master and his guest instead. Miss Hermione was curled just so, fitted into the spaces that James provided her as easily as she breathed. Their magic rested just as peacefully, auras dull and full of happy colors.  Complimentary colors. The young master’s colors are the happiest Brigita has seen in quite some time. 

Another of the elves moves into the room, pausing, eyes immediately finding the elder elf.  “Brigita?” 

“Shhh. They peaceful – yes?” 

The younger elf’s ears flop just a touch as  he nods. 

“Let them be. We wake them early for the fast breaking.” With a little shooing motion, Brigita see’s off her compatriot . The rest of the elves would know before dawn about the scene that had been witnessed by the younger elf. She wasn’t worried about it. Elves – happy, elves that is, well treated elves, didn’t gossip about their bonded House.  Not like the unhappy and mistreated elves did to try and figure out where they had gone wrong.  Why their bonded seemed to hate them. 

The Head elf watches the pair a while longer, just to  gauge the likely hood that this scene could be repeated in the future. She certainly wasn’t going to move them, not like the younger elves might have. The potential was too great.  Miss Hermione would be good for Master James. Complimentary magic . They would make adorable babies, and it had been far too long since Potter manor had used  its nursery. 

With a click of her fingers, Brigita  moves the book from  its precarious position, moving it to the top of the stack, marking the place with the lady’s head piece.  One more look at the sweet scene and she was content to leave. 


	12. Chapter 12

Sirius  had woken at the usual time, the schedule of Hogwarts firmly ingrained after five years in attendance and promptly gone to get James. James was also quite the early  riser and took the opportunity – this year – to get to breakfast early and receive his post. That left them  doubly enough time to play a prank or two and write their girl back. 

Their girl. A strange sentiment for him when he was circling Evans. More than circling, really. He was almost hoping  that by her Birthday he could give her a piece of Jewelry and begin something of an understanding with her. Him. Sirius “Play Boy” Black. He’d kissed so many witches it was  silly and dropped them just as quickly. He’d engaged in heavy petting too, but never  given over to the idea of  ruining a girl for their fairy tale wedding. He didn’t really care about that. Magical bonds were as trapping as they were freeing to him, and one for a wedding, until the  _ bloody fates _ let them part? 

No, he wouldn’t have gone for it. Now though. With Lily writing to him, and letting him walk her to the classes they didn’t share after the Samhain ball kiss… He could see the appeal to having the option for such a thing.  Maybe he ought to mail order Lily some books for Yule. She would be here, after all. He’d thought he’d just offer her the option of picking something out during the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year if she’d deigned to go with him. This idea, however, seemed better. 

Lily did  rather scarily eat up any and all information about the wizarding society. She  fairly threw herself into her  studies, so she couldn’t be called an outsider.  So, this could be a good present. It could open some doors for them both. 

His thoughts still as he pushes open his b est friend’s door to find the room completely empty. It’s odd, the bed isn’t slept in, and there are no clothes at the foot of it.  The elves wouldn’t put away James’ clothes, they didn’t for anyone in the family, at Charlus’ insistence and his  father before him. A lesson, Charlus’ had said the first morning Sirius had ever stayed the night, to not be slovenly. Elves are a gift, not something to take for granted. If only  Kretcher weren’t awful, Sirius could see that as gospel truth. 

For now, he does a sweep of the bathroom and determines James didn’t come to his room, nor leave it. Which is shocking. James of all the marauders was the most romantically inclined. He wanted his knight-in-shining armor moment with his witch. He wanted the bond his parents had. He wanted it all. Hermione didn’t seem like a witch to just  lay back and invite anyone on top of her either. Even if she did sometimes look at James like he hung the bloody sun just for her. 

Sirius starts the search, curiosity driving him.  He doesn’t venture to the guest wing, just in case. If James had made off with Hermione, he wasn’t going to chance alerting Akuchi to that fact. It’s one thing to be a bit crass in front of the man, it’s another entirely to sleep with his heir while he’s a guest in your house!  The sitting room is empty, as is the drawing come ball room. There’s no one in Charlus’ office, nor Dorea’s. The Kobold chases him from the kitchen and then Sirius remembers – Hermione and James had been quite cozy in the Library last night. 

Half terrified he’d find them  nude and needing to get them  up so they could be presentable for breakfast without getting cursed for indecency, he makes haste toward the frankly e normous room.  What he finds is so tooth rotting - ly sweet he’s afraid to even do more than stand the four meters from them  and stare. 

Sometime in the night the pair of them had fallen asleep. Some time in the night James’ leg has unfurled along the  back of the couch, and he’d slouched down, his arm curling around Hermione. Hermione had ended up on her stomach, her face shoved against James’ neck, an arm curled against their chests, and the other wedged between him and the cushions.  Her braids are hiding them for the most part, James’ head tilted down and toward her, the braids, not a look he’d really imagined or would have imagined on the girl still curled enough to hide her face and  some of the bottom of his. 

They look so peaceful. They look right. Sirius backs up slowly, hoping to let them sleep a while longer. Maybe James would wake up soon?  It wasn’t as if they needed or used alarms like some of the students in lower years did, or the ‘Claws and ‘Puffs tended to. Hermione – well she had taken an international  portkey the day before and he wasn’t sure if the time difference – if there even is one – is in her favor or against it here. 

He’s trying to be a good friend, knowing James must feel  _ something _ for the lost princess they’d found, or they’d not have been as cozy last night and certainly not have ended up like  _ that _ .  He can sort of see James becoming a Prince next to his Princess. It fed into his romantic ideas, and Hermione was whip smart,  with ideals like no one here seemed to have. She could bring anyon e around to her way of thinking given a little time.

He trips over the book catalogue. “Bugger, fuck! Merlin and  Nim u e that fucking hurts.” He’d landed just so, knocking his elbow on the floor, the commotion of it all  waking his friends. Hermione comes up with her hand out like she’s got a wand in hand, and James  _ does _ have his wand in hand, both of them bleary eyed and confused for a while as Sirius continues to swear. 

“Sirius?” James mumbles, voice sleep rough and lower than normal. “What’re you doing in  m’room ?” 

“Your room?” Hermione’s voice might be sleep raspy and sweet but there is a thread of hysteria there. “What the hell happened?!” 

“Gods,  Prongs, you’re in the library!” Sirius grinds the words out as he sits up, rubbing at his bruised elbow gingerly. “You two must have fallen asleep and no one moved either of you.” 

He’s almost pleased he’d managed to wake them because he gets to watch this. Hermione looks at James, blinking owlishly, and James looks at Hermione, his glasses  eschew , eyes still bleary and taking in her hand on his chest, how close they still are to one another. Somewhere along the line they both must realize how compromising this situation is, because they both start to move at the same time, tripping over themselves, the couch and each other to get a respectable distance between them in short order. 

“I – I am  _ so sorry _ .” Hermione stutters as she shoves her hands through her braids, squeaking when she realizes her  hair is loose. Sweet Circe, she was a mess! And it was light out! “Oh shite, I’ve got to go shower and change – oh merlin if my grandfather – if your  _ mother _ .” 

“Calm down Princess.” James looks pale and shaken however, at the notion of their parents finding them in last night’s clothing. “Pip!” 

A small elf with  rbight eyes is there in seconds, looking over the trio with some interest. “Master James, you  is calling?” 

“Yes. Could you please escort Miss Eze to her room?”  James doesn’t notice how Hermione stops and looks at him for a moment like she’d enjoy eating him right up. Sirius does though, and fights back discomfort. He really hopes he doesn’t look at Evans like that. He’d never live down the ribbing he’d get if he did. 

“Of course! Hand please, Miss Eze.” Pip holds out his hand and Hermione  takes it, without remembering to find her hair wrap. 

James and Sirius are left in the sudden quiet of the library for all of a second before Sirius feels his lips pulling into a smirk. This was a moment he wanted to savor. This was probably the only chance he’d get to take the piss like this with James. 

“So. Sailed right past broom cupboards and went straight for –“

“Don’t you say it, Padfoot!” James’ cheeks blaze and Sirius howls with laughter. 

“Didn’t even get a little goodnight kiss?” Sirius can’t help but continue to taunt his  disheveled fellow marauder. “You know this means you’re now the most experienced –“

“Shut up!” James growls, his foot stomping and his head tilting the same way Prongs did when he was pissed off and ready to end the play fighting. “I didn’t even kiss her! Nothing happened! She – She’s-“

“Mate, you are thoroughly  _ gone _ on that witch. ”

“Like you’ve got room to talk.” James rumbles and heads for the door. 

“Yeah – but at least Evans  _ knows _ .”

“Shut. Up. Padfoot.” 

That’s the only way he knows, as the library door bangs open, that James isn’t really pissed off with him. Still, the former Black heir resolves to tread lightly during breakfast, and now that his wayward sibling has been found, pulls himself off the ground to go get a shower.  The room is left silent and empty, books and a headwrap waiting for the occupants to return. 

“Good morning, Papa.” Hermione is subdued  as she greets her Grandfather in their native tongue  when they are all summoned to breakfast, resplendent in a  purple wrapper and top with puffed sleeves. Her hair is wrapped in the same color, a thick  silver  band around her face.  She is again without make up and James thinks she’s radiant, though she can’t look at him for more than a few seconds. 

Her greeting is returned by the taller  Eze as he gracefully takes his seat.  They share a few moments of quiet conversation before Hermione greets Dorea and Charlus. It’s interesting to watch her like this, to see her so formal after the night before had been decidedly relaxed. What’s more, James can feel his  parents’ eyes on him. It’s a bit like he has a sign attached to his shoulders saying, “I slept with our guest in the library”. 

“You’re looking a bit peaked today, Miss Eze. Did you not sleep well?” Dorea watches as James inhales a piece of egg and wonders exactly what happened in the night. None of the wards had gone off, so nothing truly untoward had occurred. Which begged the question – what was making the two teens so damn antsy?

“I- I stayed up a bit too late reading, I think. You are free to call me, Hermione, Mrs. Potter. And, I have to apologize for last night. I was so happy to see James and Sirius that I forgot that I was in the presence of elders –“

“Nonsense! It’s refreshing to see such a young woman with such a good, steady head on her shoulders.  You did  nothing out of line and have been boundlessly respectful. You’re a boon to your house.” 

“Ma’am,”  Hermione is reddening, the color starting high on her cheeks and making  it’s way toward her neck. “That’s a high compliment and you barely know me.” 

“I know enough. James hardly ever  misses a chance to relate something you’ve written to me in his letters home. I’m lucky my son has such a good friend and influence. His friends are rowdy, as you must know, and you ground him. Sirius too, I imagine.” 

Hermione sputters, not sure what to say or what to do. She looks toward Akuchi for guidance and finds him  fairly shining with mirth. Her shoulders slump seeing that he is no help to her. 

“She is a boon to her line and legacy, Mrs. Potter.  I am blessed to have found her, and for her to be so willing to take up her duty to house and tribe. Your boys keep her on her toes, and it does her good to have their influence as well.” In a few sentences, the Eze elder has navigated the compliments with grace, returning them equally. Hermione sighs and  lets her eyes fall to her plate. 

“I’m terrible at all of this.” 

“You really aren’t, my dear girl.” Charlus sets down his knife and fork, leaning his elbows on the polished black walnut table. “You’re young, and that means you will sometimes feel out of your depth, but you do marvelously all the same.  You aren’t used to praise, however, and that shows. You’re modest in some situations, but easily tip your hand in others. Dorea and I, I’d even hazard to say your Grandfather, have all been in similar situations.” 

Dorea sniffs and smiles slightly. “Oh yes, I believe I was perhaps five and I had no idea how to take it when I was told my manners were impeccable.  My mother made it her job to make sure I never again floundered.” 

Hermione eyes the elder Witch with respect in her eyes.  Respect and a touch of fear. The Black family was more than a  _ little _ terrifying. She wouldn’t even want to be on the wrong end of Sir i us’ wand in a dark Corridor to be perfectly frank with herself. 

“Five? My friend you are made of sterner stuff than most if you endured  training for days and days in all sorts of situations that would embarrass  you, so you wouldn’t feel such.” Akuchi nods,  as if agreeing with himself. “It took me a great many years of my youth to be able to accept praise and let it roll off me in order to reply respectfully and modestly.”

“See Eze? You’re in good company! Prongs still doesn’t let praise just roll off him, and I’m  _ far _ to conceited to do it.” 

“Sirius Orion! You are self-absorbed, I won’t even attempt to  say you aren’t, but conceited? Don’t you have a cousin named  _ Narcissa? _ ” 

“Oh, look, Prongs! She’s got claws!” Sirius beams happily as Hermione raises a brow in response. Her point has been lost, and it’s her own fault, really.  Subtly is lost on Sirius when he wants to be obtuse and paint himself some sort of villain, apparently. 

“Don’t tease her, Padfoot. She might take a bite out of you. You know she’s got the mandrake going.” 

Her grandfather pins her with an appraising look. Hermione feels her face heat up again and she shrugs in answer to the silent question. “Prongs and Padfoot, Papa. You really think I’d have kept it secret from my greatest resource?” 

“That, my dear girl, is an excellent answer and worthy of a Slytherin.” Dorea nods in approval, while the boys all groan.  Hermione, for her part, let’s her mouth drop open in surprise, thinking back to all those years ago when the hat was placed on her head. 

She hadn’t been a hat stall, technically, and neither had Harry, thought they’d both nearly been.  The debate was which houses they’d nearly been stalled between. Hermione could see her dear friend being a shoe in for Hufflepuff, honestly, if he hadn’t been so brash. Afraid of work Harry Potter was not, and loyal like a stubborn goat. 

Her near stall was not for Ravenclaw, like so many assumed at the time. She wanted knowledge, of course she did, she was at a disadvantage without it. She wanted  knowledge, so she could change the world.  She could admit that, at least to herself. Her ambitions were great, even at eleven. She read so may books that year when she’d missed the required  age date to attend. The Wizarding world may be amazing, but it was far behind the rest of the world. Even the rest of the wizarding world. 

“It likely would have been a good fit,” Hermione says at length, thinking about her tendency to drag people where they ‘needed’ to be , especially when it came to study. “I want to change the world, and if that isn’t ambition, then I’m afraid I’ll need to reevaluate the definition.” 

“ See, boys? She admits she would have been a  _ cunning and resourceful _ member of my own house. Loyalty is not only a Hufflepuff trait.” 

“We know, Mum.  But the exceptions prove the rule you know. You and Hermione are absolutely exceptions to the rule that Slytherins are  in general power-hungry blighters.”

Hermione snorts, and delicately takes a bite of sausage from her plate before  addressing James. “Who says we aren’t? Power-hungry, that is?” 

“What?” He looks at her with wide eyes, searching eyes. 

Hermione responds by rolling her eyes at  him and taking a delicate bite of food. She makes him wait for her answer and knows the rest of the table is watching them. “There are different kinds of power, you know. There is power in your family, not the literal kind mind you , and not the obvious sort like someone marrying into my family for example. There is the power, however, to be able to pursue your dreams without worrying you will be stifled.” 

Brown, keen eyes slide to Dorea. “Love is power, respect is power. Combine the two and you are shielded from a great deal of strife.  Your mother worked, did she not, James?” 

“Well, yes, but not because she needed to –“

“Because she  _ wanted _ to, yes I assumed so. Your father is a bit famous for his potions, after all.  Mr. Potter didn’t stop her from working, either. He let his love do what she desired, he gave her that freedom, likely without even thinking about it.” 

“Wait, you’re saying Mum P, my Aunt, fell in love with her own freedom?” Sirius is frowning, eyes sliding between the adults who had taken him in. “But they love each other.” 

“ Of course, they do! You’d need to be blind to miss it. They may not be overly demonstrative, but I can clearly tell that they adore each other. When you love someone, you want them to be happy. I bet it never crossed  Mr. Potter ’ s mind to tell  Mrs. Potter she wouldn’t work.” 

“Right in one .” Charlus chimes in, amusement in his tone, watching as Hermione gives a lesson, he and Dorea hadn’t been able to impress upon the boys. 

“ So, you’re saying it wasn’t just a love match?” James looks affronted and Hermione sighs, reaching for her tea to fortify her. 

“It was and is a love match, don’t try to tarnish it. However, it was also a  _ powerful _ love match. In a patriarchal society such as the British wizarding community, love is often set by the wayside for advantage amongst the upper  echelons .  What the current Dark would be regime is painting as years upon years of carefully orchestrated blood purity breeding, is more accurately a series of power moves. The powerful are drawn to power, with the odd  exception proving the rule.” 

“ So, you won’t marry for love?” 

Hermione shoots a scandalized look at Sirius. “ Of course, I will!  I’m in a position where my marriage will be  scrutinized but it won’t be looked on unfavorably if I took a man or woman from my tribe as spouse or even a neighboring one. I’m keeping the line strong rather than breeding out the power of it with an inferior match based solely on political power. Love is powerful, I think I’ve said that before.  Magic is powered by intent. Love drives people to beautiful and terrible heights. Why shouldn’t I marry for love when it would be an advantage to my magic?” 

“ I feel like I’ve just run in a circle,” James groans and stabs at a fried tomato. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. Love is powerful magic, for you, specifically, any love match you make will be advantageous?” 

“Yes.” 

“And my Mum and Dad, were a love match, but Mum als o saw that Dad wouldn’t restrict her with some patriarchal bullshit?” 

“James! Language.” Hermione sets down her teacup a bit hard and Dorea has to quickly pick her own up to hide a laugh. The young woman is a powerhouse, and that brain of hers would be both a boon and  tripping point for her. She wagers it’s already proven to be meddlesome for her to be so smart at times. Not because she couldn’t be manipulated, but because she could be, easily if the facts were presented in just the right way. That and the girl could talk herself out of and into something a half dozen times before the proposal was complete. 

“She isn’t wrong, love.” Dorea takes the opportunity  to cut in, thinking she might be able to direct the conversation she’d started. “I love your father rather intensely, but she’s not wrong about him being a choice that lead to me having  the power to choose how my future would go. When I was coming up, when we were coming up,  upper class witches did not work, point blank. That’s falling out of style now, for the most part, with the  ultra-wealthy and elite keeping to the tradition.  Had I chosen someone else, life would have been much different. Charlus’ love for me, and mine for him, provided freedom .  So she’s absolutely right, not all power is obvious but all power is power.” 

“Hell,” James ignores Hermione’s indignant  use of his name, and he’s glad she doesn’t know his middle name just yet. “So, you’re looking for a match like that then? Going to marry some bloke or bird who won’t stop you from changing the world?” 

Hermione sighs and shakes her head. “Yes and no. I hope whom ever I love will have similar  ambitions . I want someone at my side who will run with me, if you will, rather than be content to watch me run. ” 

James refuses to admit he feels a spark of hope at her declaration. 

“Right. Well, I wish you luck, Eze, personally, I’ve got my hands full.  But, I have been doing a little bit of thinking. Yesterday you were talking about making my own house.” Sirius is the one to  grab her attention away from his brother. James looked calculating, and more than a little hopeful. Best to get the parents focused on something else. 

“Oh? Want to know more, do you?” Hermione leans forward, and he can see the light build in her eyes. He wonders at how such a slip of a witch can be so magical. He can see her magic in  her , and wonders why it’s so interested in him. 

“I do.” He swallows, reaching for his tea. It doesn’t escape him that there has yet to be a conversation at this table exclusively between the adults. When were they talking? Why were the conversations of teenagers so interesting?  “Family magic is important. Family more so. Even if mine was a big old bag of lies, I learned that much.” 

“Family magic is cultivated.” Hermione knows this subject backwards and forwards. She’s been speaking to Neville and Luna about the depth of magic over the last few years.  She’d been curious as to why Malfoy put much more stock in his name than seemed reasonable. She found that it was his  _ family _ power he put stock in. With fairly good reason it would seem. “The founder of the family  would dedicate themselves to the family in some way or another. Be it a vow to see the family move toward success, or the intent to pass on more than simply genetic matter to their children . Lost-Borne children often do not end up creating their own houses because their intent is absorbed by the family they marry into , bolstering that family ’s magi c.” 

Sirius nods, pushing his eggs onto his toast to eat them that way. He should have asked for an egg sandwich. “Okay, so I have to have intent – a strong intent, to even start cultivating family magic. I don’t – how does it manifest? Can you manifest yours?” 

Hermione  ducks her head and shakes it a bit.  “No, I haven’t – well I don’t really  know.” 

“I can take this one,  dear heart .” Akuchi takes a sip of tea and looks at Sirius. “I haven’t yet taken her to the family stone or  sacred casting space. She hasn’t been immersed in the magic, and I won’t risk her attempting to reach out for it . She labored too long under the impression she would have to make her own family magic to risk her magic manifesting  _ new _ magic instead of just making the connection.  You’ll have to cleanse yourself of your family magic. It will not be a comfortable process, but if you truly wish to make your own – it will be a worth while endeavor. More than that, your own magic will be much stronger after you find your partner and create the  legacy you plan to pass on.” 

“Further, family magic is intensely linked to your personality – like your eyes or hair, it becomes a reflection of family traits. Which is the reason for having to cleanse yourself of the magic you were born into . It will completely break you from the Black family if you do so.” 

Sirius swallows hard and looks at his egg toast in contemplation. A little frown pulls at the edges of his mouth. Could he go to those lengths? He loved his brother, Reggie, but loathed the rest. Narcissa wasn’t so bad , but she would be the longer she stayed mired in the family magic of House Black and House Malfoy ,  Andromeda was brave, but already divorced of the family, and  Bella? Bella was batshit insane. But to cut himself off from Mum P, his Aunt magically ….

“What about relations? How can I link my family legacy to the relations I do love?”

“ Oh, that’s easy!” Hermione perks up  again and smiles brilliantly. “You simply induct them into the magic, recognizing your blood covenant in your sacred casting space or at the family stone. It will  reestablish those magical  pathways.” 

“Brilliant.” Sirius sighs heavily in relief and nods decidedly. He had a few years yet, before he would need to really worry about it. He didn’t want to marry right out of Hogwarts, he imagined Lily would want a year to settle into the routine of life, if that life was with him anyway. “I’ll need to research it a bit more, but thanks, Hermione, Mr. Eze, for indulging me on the topic.” 

“ Think nothing of it. It’s not a topic many ask about, and I am in a unique position to lend aide.” Akuchi brushes off th e thanks with a smile , returning to his fruits and oats. 

James and Sirius are uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of breakfast. The adults watch the teens curiously,  Akuchi asking after an article he spies on the front page of the prophet. It sparks a quiet conversation over the state of the Wizengamut ’s stance on witches and muggleborn or lost-borne rights. The  conversation is a great cover for their watchful eyes. 

James can’t stop looking at Hermione. Silver suited her , thought he liked the cold details of yesterdays hair wrap far better. Purple also looks beautiful on her. He’s fairly sure the witch could wear a sack and still be fetching.  Sort of like Sirius’ cousin, Narcissa.  The quietest of the Black sisters could wear a house elf uniform and likely still look elegan t. 

Hermione selects some fruit from the bowl in front of her, the lion’s share of her breakfast eaten. Fruit is an essential part of the  first meal of the day the natural sugars and vitamins would keep her alert  well until the midday dinner. She uses  the conversation as a cover to look at James. She doesn’t see Harry anymore looking at him. The differences between them are stark, and she doesn’t know James half as well as she had Harry.  Oh the temper is the same, probably a by product of the Black family magic mingling with the Potter , and that solemn look Harry had was mirrored in James when he was worried or extremely serious. 

But James is taller,  more filled out. His hair just as wild, but again, it’s the Black curl right at the root, though that doesn’t really explain Charlus’ wild hair. Perhaps there was  some more curl farther back in their line. Either way, it suits him. Suits that devil may care sincere smile of his.  Certainly, suits the way he looks when just waking. 

Hermione’s head ducks a little remembering the sleep laden  sound of his voice and the warmth of him. Hell, it was intoxicating, and she was an hour or more away from the incident.  He smelled good too, his cologne stronger than it had been before they slept. 

She gives herself a little bit of a shake. She wasn’t here to make moon eyes at James. He was her  _ friend _ , and he was -  he was. Her eyes slide to Sirius.  He was out of character, going after Lily, of all the witches  in Hogwarts, he chose Lily. His brother’s love. She looks between them. They are at ease. No lines of tension in the traditional places one was to carry it. 

So, Lily and Sirius. Sirius and Lily. She’d thought about the ramifications of that on and off since the letter.  Would Frank marry Alice? Or was everything sh e th ought she knew wrong? She’d  _ thought _ her grandfather wouldn’t be more than 60, but here he was  a centennial and the generations she thought separated them weren’t existent. 

The urge to rub at her forehead and tug at her hair rises and Hermione  shoves away what she thought she knew and works with just what she knows. James is not with Lily. Last year, presumably, there had been a prank played that had been not to Remus’ tastes.  He was still riding James and Sirius on the topic. Sirius had kissed Lily. Sirius was seriously thinking about divorcing himself from the family magic to create his own. 

Her eyes slide back to James. Would he lose his parents this time? Would he and Sirius, Remus and Peter join the Order upon graduating? Would he be an Auror? That latter bit seemed highly unlikely, he spoke too often about political concerns to want to be a glorified magical policeman.  Would that  effect him going against the Dark Lord?  Would that effect the Prophecy? Would there even  _ be _ a prophecy this time?

Hermione devours her fruit carefully considering these things. Lost in her own thoughts, she misses the way the adults are sharing  smiles and shrugs. The children would do as children would, apparently. At least they got a word in edge wise this time. 

“James, Sirius, could you show me to the kitchens?” Akuchi had given Hermione the bag of Yams earlier, and she felt it more appropriate to give them directly to the Kobold to prepare for a dinner rather than awkwardly hand Mrs. Potter a bag of root vegetables. The boys look up from  where their heads were bent together and eye her curiously. The bag is in her hands and Hermione feels her face heat. Honestly, hadn’t she written to them about this? 

Had she? Now that she thinks on it, she can’t remember if she had explained the gift they would be bringing and  its significance to her people.  When the silence stretches on too long for her comfort, the  dark-haired witch rolls her eyes and opens the bag, thrusting it forward for the wizards to inspect. 

“Papa and I brought part of the harvest with us, a small part of it. Yams are our principle crop, and  our tribe is known for the size and sweetness of the root vegetable. Nothing inherently magical about them, other than being very good for you, but they are delicious, and we thought it better to bring this than something  frivo –“

“Say no more, Princess.” James smiles at her, standing up. Hermione scowls at being cut off and is readying a sharp retort when Sirius’ snorts. 

“Leave it to you to bring food  as a gift, Eze. The Kobold should be really pleased with these. Mrs. P said something about you two bringing a gift. I thought it would be something interesting, but this isn’t awful.” 

“Yes, thank you for the approval, Black.” Hermione rolls her  eyes and looks at Potter expectantly. “The kitchens?”

“Yeah, course. Come on.” He  gestures for her to turn, and Hermione does, almost jumping out of her skin when his hand settles lightly on the small of her back. She doesn’t even look back to see if Sirius is following them. Good thing too, or she’d have seen the way Sirius has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. The pair of them are oblivious to a ridiculous degree when the other is in proximity. 

The kitchen is nice, Hermione decides upon arrival. She’s not one for cooking, which is no doubt, where her deficiency with Potions truly lies.  But, even for a person who doesn’t cook, the kitchen is well set up to her eye.  An island that served as the perfect workspace, the cooling cabinet no doubt being just off to the side and the stove,  which she could see had replaced a proper hearth in the new century from the ever so slight  soot marks on the backsplash. 

The kobold makes itself known with a soft noise and spark of magic. Shrewd dark eyes take in the young witch and wizard.  Hermione tenses despite herself. She feels more judged than she had when meeting Dorea. Far, far more judged. James clears his throat and smiles softly. 

“Miriiska, this is Miss Hermione Eze, one of the family guests. She and her grandfather have brought you a gift to prepare for us as you see fit.”

“And – if you’re able, you can share them with your family.  I’m afraid I don’t know if there is a divide between English and African Kobold clans –“

“There isn’t.” Soft and low, the kobold, Miriiska startles Hermione into silence. The magical quality of the house hold helper is impossible to ignore.  Miriiska, just the same as the kobold in the Eze manor, is magic in the flesh. “You’re bringing food to us of the Potter household. Unusual. Why?” 

Hermione blinks several times before a peal of soft laughter leaves, her. Trust the Kobolds to be wary of gifts. “ My people are farmers, primarily, and a staple crop is yams.  The Potters extended kindness to myself and my grandfather, and by extension our tribe.  So, we brought a token of that kindness and friendship with us , food can bridge all gaps that manners may not.” 

“And you give this kindness to me and mine as well?” 

“Yes of course, are you not helping to care for me and my grandfather? Even the elves may partake if they’re so inclined. I know ours often aren’t, and they won’t let me knit for them, thinking I’m trying to sever  centuries old bonds.” 

“You’re an odd one, Miss Eze.” The kobold reaches  for the bag and Hermione  extend it for her to take. “ I thank you for the family I care for and the one I’ve made. We appreciate such kindness from Wizards and Witches outside the Noble House.” 

It seems so formal, but then, Hermione hasn’t got much to compare it to. It wasn’t as if  Kre a tcher , Dobby, and Winky were good examples of House Elf bonds, and her own House elves were busy helping her to know what a good bond consisted of – too focused on that. She barely knew what House Elves liked to eat! And Kobolds, well, she knew they didn’t give up their hearths easily, and would be  mildly offended when you tried to cook without their express permission.  Sirius’ house – or rather, the Ancient and Noble house of Black’s seat in London hadn’t had a Kobold. It made her wonder if the Kobold had left or one had never bonded with the family to begin with. 

“You’re more than welcome.  Really, I should be thanking you, but I know better than to get into such a war with magical  care takers.” The with her smile in place, a sincere one too, Hermione turns to James. “I’m going to go to the Library again, did you want to grab Sirius and join me?” 

“Um. Sure.” 

“We could  talk more about the steps of becoming Animagi?” She sounds so hopeful and her smile is so sweet that James blinks a few times before he can get words out. 

“Right, yeah. Um. Sirius had it easiest, I think. But he’s  got a magical form, so that might be part of it. Anyway, lets go find him and then get to your book pile, yeah?” 

“Excellent plan.” 

It’s a short walk back to Sirius, and he isn’t at all surprised to see the pair of them still within touching distance of one another. It’s a miracle no one’s set out a betrothal contract just to watch the fireworks in his opinion. Something tells him it would be a fantastic display of temper on both their parts. James because he absolutely refused the idea of being tied to someone not his choice, and Hermione because she’d want to tear the contract to bits, likely without understanding she wanted  James for herself while ranting about contracts being positively medieval. Yes, it would be an amazing show if someone were to think about it. 

“Padfoot, Princess would like our help in the Library.” 

“Oh? Didn’t look like she needed any help last night, that pile of books definitely lends to the idea she can operate your catalogue.” 

“She wants some  first-hand advice on a subject you and I are uniquely positioned to help her with.” James looks like he’s trying to cast wandless magic, and Hermione’s brows scrunch together as her eyes slide back and forth between them.  He could almost hear her confusion. 

“Being a virgin isn’t exactly –“

“Sirius!” 

“Well no, it’s not serious,” he chuckles, that joke will never get old, he doesn’t care if he lives to  200 he will use that joke. “It’s sweet really, how he wants a magical marriage –“

“ _ Padfoot _ . Merlin,  we’re talking about our furry sidekicks –“

“Blimey I didn’t need to –“ 

Hermione levels a threatening gaze on the young man in front of her. “Don’t you dare say what I think you’re about to say, Sirius Orion Black. If you do, I’ll hex you bald for a month starting the day after Yule!” 

The marauder pair blink at the slight woman with horror etched onto their faces. Sirius could admit he went a bit far with that last  comment but he hadn’t actually said anything. Good thing too, or his glorious curls would have come under fire. With a sheepish grin he heaves himself upright and shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks. 

“Well now that we’re threatening bodily harm, let’s go look at those books, shall we?”  If he sounds a little ill at ease, well who can blame him? The woman wanted to hex him  _ bald _ . BALD. Him. It just wouldn’t do, and so he would happily go look at a bunch of books he didn’t need to. Trust James Potter to choose the wickedest light witch he could.  This one was sharper than Evans ever could dream of being. 

“Excellent.” With a beaming smile, Hermione fairly skips toward the library, two teenage wizards pacing somberly behind her. They’re just far enough back they can carry a conversation without her overhearing, or at least they hope they are. 

“ So, ready to confess your undying devotion to her yet?”

“Shut up, Padfoot. It’s not like that.” 

“Oh yeah? Prongs  m’boy I found you two sprawled on a couch in the library this morning looking quite cozy.”  The disbelief is thick and real in Sirius’ voice. 

“I – She’s a really good friend. Maybe even a best friend. You write to her too, you told her about Lily! Merlin, I didn’t think you would even talk to me about  it but you went to Hermione for advice.” 

“She was removed from the situation, mate! I thought if I came within three meters of you, that you’d hex me impotent or worse.” 

“I can see why you would, but I’m also your best friend. No bird gets between the marauders, not even Evans! Never Evans.” 

“I know, Prongs, I know.” Sirius gives a  half-hearted shrug. “Hermione just – she has this way about her, I know you’ve noticed, like she’s a den mother. It’s easy to talk to her about things that are a bit uncomfortable and I was really worried you’d hate me. Evans has been your dream girl since our first year.” 

“Well obviously not anymore.”  The words slide out so easily it shocks both of them. James had really just given up on the redhead. The question: for whom hangs heavily in the air between them. 

“She’s not coming to Hogwarts, James. ”

“I know.”

“You’ll only have letters until she comes of age or you do.”

“I  _ know _ .” 

“You’ll have to go to her. She has a tribe to lead. How are you going to keep the family seat if you’re off in Africa?” 

“Sirius, stop. I don’t even think she’s onboard for all of that –“

“Then you’re a blind idiot.” 

“Don’t be so rude,” James sighs, lifting a hand and shoving it through his hair . A habit that had fallen by the way side for a while. Sirius wonders if it’s actually related to nerves. Here’s certainly enough evidence to support  that theory. “Hermione – she’ll change the world . I could change England, maybe you could too, show the  “Noble” ancient houses they can turn over new leaves. She needs someone who can change the world with her.” 

“So – redirect a little.  You could do both. They aren’t mutually exclusive.” 

“What are you two fishwives  gossiping about?” Hermione’s question has their eyes snapping up , heads shifting from where they had bent together. 

“Obviously how well purple and silver compliment your skin tone, Poppet.” Sirius mock leers at her and James is happy to see her eyes roll as she turns to the doors of the Library. 

“As if I’m unaware purple is on of the colors that suits me , you don’t see me wearing red and  gold, do you? They’d be awful on me.” The evidence of six years of looking grey and frizzy six days out of the week . “Come on you two biddies, let’s get me to where I can see my form!” 

Four hours later finds Hermione laid out on the floor of the library her eyes closed, the leaf still firmly under her tongue. Her breaths are even and timed and her mind struggles to clear.  It was a fatal flaw of hers, her mind always moving. James and Sirius can see it, and hover over a book of meditation techniques. 

“All right, Princess, Picture a Library for me, one you’re very familiar with and comfortable in. No one is there, it’s well light,  blessedly  silent. Just you, and all those books. You’re just sorting them, putting them in order – “

“Order by subject,  year published and  then alphabetical by author if possible.” She finishes the scenario set up in a breath. It’s amusing to the sixth years to see how limp she goes in a few seconds after the scenario has set in her mind. She goes so  still and her breathing slows down . If they didn’t know she was safe inside the meditation circle, it would be alarming. 

As for Hermione, the Library is the best idea that could have been suggested. Her mind works automatically,  read the books, find the publication date, check the author, shelve on the empty cart first. Wash, rinse, repeat.  She’s at peace, here, surrounded by knowledge and put to work in a useful manner.  So, what if there is an entire shelf of books that have her name on them, swathed in  iridescent fabric, bound in black, those books are about her. The entirety of her life thus far, all her  blunders, triumphs, embarrassments, and secrets. They stay in a dim corner, and she knows she’ll put the most boring books around them. Boring meant they would be overlooked, and her life would be safe from scrutiny. 

It’s quite a while before the temperature of her conjured environment begins to warm. Suddenly it is not warmth charms that keep the library warm, but she is back in her homeland.  She can smell the distinct oncoming of rain, and that heat of summer that bakes the ground beneath her feet. Flowering trees in the distance perfume the air vaguely, and she almost jumps out of her skin when she feels something wind around her legs. 

Her breath hitches, hands pausing, body stiffening. It winds around and between her legs again. Larger than Crooks would ever be, but smoother too, the tail hits her upper thigh when it thwacks against her. It takes her time before the curious witch gets up the courage to look down, the feline is in front of her, proud and watching her as if to see every single one of her secrets laid bare. 

There are tufts at the ears, which are the same color as her hair, the eyes are  golden yellow with flecks of whiskey amber in them. The cat is completely black, unusual by her understanding of the cat she’s faced with.  Its chirruping call has her crouching down before it, until they are eyelevel to one another. 

“Hello.”  She doesn’t know if her animal self will speak in this situation, nothing she’s read has pointed to yes, though nothing has pointed to no either. Anything is possible with magic. 

The cat tilts its head, and she could swear it is smirking at her. Acknowledging  her and keeping its own secrets.  Her eyes take in the beastie, noticing golden markings on  its chest.  Her scars. Scars that had been carefully and extensively  healed but had apparently left their mark on her anyway.  Those eyes fairly glow, and Hermione has the distinct impression this form of hers will keep her out of  trouble and get her into scrapes in equal measure. 

_ Yes, we will _ . 

Her eyes snap open and Hermione sits straight up in the chalk circle with a gasping breath. She almost inhales her mandrake leaf, sputtering but managing to neither spit it out or swallow it. For a moment, nothing feels right. The air is  not fresh and  cool but filled with layered scents that make her nose scrunch in offense. Perhaps if there weren’t so many scents it could be pleasant.  The room is too bright, and she ducks her head, trying to shield her eyes. 

“Bloody hell.” 

The voice makes her twitch and she  snaps her head  toward the sound, eyes narrowing. She sniffs at the males in the room. One pale, one not quite as dark as her. One smells  of  _ dog _ and her hackles rise, the other, like prey but not. She can’t eat him. He’s important. He could harm her if he wanted, just like the  _ dog _ could if it wasn’t stupidly staying still. 

“Princess? Hermione?” The one staying to still to be prey moves, reaching a hand out to her. “It’s just me, James.” She blinks slowly. James. Familiar. She sniffs  imperiously, and her eyes slide toward the dog.  Grey eyes are rolled at her and his hand is also offered up. 

“Merlin, Eze. Got a little in touch with your wild side, eh?”  He’s the one who smells of awful strong cologne that does not mix well with the rest of the environment. She sneezes and the paler one, James, snorts.  She moves toward him, slowly, so she doesn’t scare him off, carefully because her body feels odd. Too large and without her whiskers she’s without her full range of depth perception. 

Her head butts gently against  James ’ chest, and he makes a surprised grunting sound, but a hand settles on her back, moving soothingly.  Content,  Hermione settles against him, out of the chalk circle, the magic of it dissipating slowly. She feels heavy, sleepy. Her eyes flutter , and soon enough, she’s asleep and fully human again. 

James has a lapful of witch  _ again _ . He doesn’t know if he’s lucky the  witch feels safe with him, or if this is some kind of special torture for having made eyes at someone clearly beyond his level. Sirius looks torn between being affronted and being amused at the picture they must make. Personally, James is wondering a how Hermione is so clearly a predator and yet the urge to flee hadn’t been overwhelming. IT had taken a few weeks to get over wanting to run from Sirius and Remus when he’d first started the process of becoming an Animagi.  But, Hermione had pinned him with that eerie yellow-amber gaze and he wasn’t terrified to stillness, rather he just felt safe. As safe as he felt with his brothers. 

“Of course, she’d be a bleeding cat. Did you see her eyes? Glowing. There’s magic in that form, whatever it is. I’m a little disappointed she didn’t have a more evident manifestation. I had a bloody tail and you had antlers. What’s she got? Eyes.”

The Potter scion snorts, looking down at the  purple and silver wrapper hiding her hair. “You’re just jealous magic practically breathes for her. The second we put her someplace she was mentally  comfortable it was like she was meant to  find her form. It was just waiting for her mind to quiet enough to make it happen.” 

“Like bloody Peter. I’m still ticked  _ W _ _ ormtail _ got his form first out of all of us.” 

“I’m not. It made sense. Rats are family creatures, playful, cautious in their curiosity. You don’t see Peter just running into danger now do you?” James continues to pet the slumbering young woman, trying to ignore her warmth and the gentle scent that lingers around her.  Parchment like but not quiet, maybe just woodsy, he can’t tell today. “ SO, she’s a cat. Cats are slinky, secretive, into everything,  mischievous .” 

“Perfect for a Marauder.” Sirius waggles his brows lewdly and James shifts, cuffing him round the shoulder. 

“Shut it. I doubt it’ll happen. “ 

“Have a little faith, mate. She went to you. It’s not like she wandered off to find someone she was comfortable with for a cuddle. She ambled right over out of the chalk circle with all it’s protective runes that prevented a full transformation to you.  By rights, she should have tried to take a bite out of you, you’re the only prey animal here.” 

“Oh yeah, I’m prey with my antlers that can take out a spleen with the right angle and fore applied.” He hates being called a prey animal. He didn’t fit that categorization at all and rather resented it.  He’d have to bowl over Padfoot on the next full moon. 

“Mate, you have hooves not claws, and blunt teeth not  fangs. She’s got all of that, I’ll bet you. It’s not her fault anymore than it is mine for being a dog. Well. Grim.”

“Figured out if that’s going to cause problems yet?” 

“Not yet, for all I keep researching it, I’m not exactly  coming up with a plethora of information.  It’s mostly divination based, harbinger of death. Well I’ve never spoken with Death so that might be a bit of a stretch. I’ll settle for knowing if he’s going to come calling or not, really.”

James looks down as Hermione shoves her face against his neck, breathing deeply and going limp again. If it was anyone but sirius, he’d be redder than the  red that was on his school tie. He still  sort of wants to be that red, but it would just give Sirius ammunition  against him. Not that the arse needs more than he has at this point. 

“We’ll figure it out. Let’s get some lunch up here from the elves and  Kobold and let her wake up before we go find the parents.  I’m surprised none of them have come and found us yet. It’s been ages.” 

“I think that at least one side of that equation hopes you and the princess there get to know one another and promises are exchanged.” Sirius, chuckles, just shy o f his usual barking laughter. 

“What?  Shite I hope not. Her grandfather is hoping for someone of an equal footing –“

“Don’t lie to yourself. He was in  _ no way _ of a tribe as high up as the one he married into. He gave up his name for his wife.  I think if Hermione is happy, Akuchi will be happy. So long as the chosen spouse isn’t a drain on the family magic and an embarrassment to the  legacy, she could marry a harpy.” 

“ Nimue , Sirius, do you have to be so bald about it?”

“Yes. Because you’re being an idiot on the topic. Nipsy!” 

James hasn’t got a chance to tell him to shove his opinion on his emotional investment in Hermione when one of the Potter elves makes his appearance. He’s one of the younger elves of the estate, named by James when he was about five, at the insistence of the elf who had taken a liking to his ‘young master  Jamesies ”. Now the elf was a bit more intent on  dignity and kept himself carefully dressed in a clean uniform with the house seal on his  vest. 

“Masters James and Sirius be calling.” He eyes the sleeping Hermione  with a touch of concern. “You not be cursing the pretty  witch, is you? She brought a gift for the  _ whole house!  _ It  be terrible manners to be cursing her.” 

“We didn’t, Nipsy,” James hurries to stall the incoming lecture. “She was meditating and met her animal form, it took a lot out of her. Sirius called you for some food and drink for when she wakes up.” 

“Ah, well in that case, I’ll bring you something. Light fare for the Miss, some strong tea with cream and sugars on the side, nicely chilled water too, maybe some watercress and chips for the young ones, yes.” Nipsy mumbles to himself before turning with a gentle pop. 

“ So, we’re going to be subjected to watercress sammies because Hermione used up a lot of energy?” Sirius groans. “The things we do for witches, mate.” 

“ You can’t be  _ that _ hungry, Sirius. Plus, he’s bringing chips. You know Miriishka makes amazing chips.” 

“Still,  _ watercress _ .” 

“I happen to like watercress,” James sniffs looking remarkably like his mother for a moment. It’s got Sirius shaking his head and muttering about being Witch whipped. As if Sirius hadn’t been curled around Lily’s finger since she allowed him to take her to Hogsmeade in early November after their fateful kiss. 

Nipsy returns with a plater of  egg, cucumber and watercress sandwiches, a massive teapot James has never seen, and a jug of water. Glasses, teacups and plates hover at his side and he sets everything up after shrinking a side table down to size, sweeping away the chalk protective runes. When he’s  satisfied, he nods definitively and pops away without a word.  Which leaves James and Sirius to wake up Hermione. 

“Princess, wake up, there’s some tea and food.” James jiggles her a bit and its result  is Hermione grizzling and shoving her face against his stomach in protest having slid away from his shoulder at some point. Sirius looks ready to laugh himself sick while James tilts his head to look at the ceiling.  This is a special kind of torture. 

“Hermione!”  She doesn’t move again. Potter worries that the meditation took more out of her than originally anticipated. Third times are charmed, however, so he tries one last option. 

“Hermione! You’re going to miss your N.E.W.T.S!” 

The  dark young woman shoots up, knocking her head against James’ chin, cursing and holding her head as she flops away from him, eyes scrunched shut. “Ow!” Their pained cries sound  together and seconds later near braying laughter fills the room. Hermione rolls on her side and James lashes out with a haphazard fist, catching Sirius in the shoulder. 

“Shut it,  you t osser!” 

Hermione simply flicks a stinging jinx at the still laughing  Sirius, and grins when he howls. She’s not sure where it hit him, but it sounds like it did the job. Good. It would teach him, hopefully, to not laugh at others’ misery. 

“Why did you wake me like that?”  The pain has  receded just enough for her to feel tired as hell and question why she’d woken up. 

James flings a hand toward the tea service. “You may be tired, Princess, but we can’t let you sleep the day away. It’s about lunch time, and thankfully my parents aren’t much for formal luncheon outside of actual holidays , so we had lunch brought up. If you don’t like egg, cucumber and watercress –“

“Oh, that sounds lovely. Are those chips? They look gorgeous.” As she sits up James has to chuckle. Clearly you could take the girl from England but not the England from the girl.  She’s not  shy about getting things set up. It’s as if she’s the host instead of him. 

He watches as she deftly  puts two  sandwich halves on the three plates and places them in front of himself and Sirius followed by tea cubes of sugar on the sides of the cups for them to do as they would with. The water comes last, and she sits back on her heels when she hands Sirius his tumbler, taking a grateful gulp of her own before popping the plate of chips in the middle of them all. 

Hermione happily  takes a chip and bites into it, humming quietly to herself and not paying any mind to the other teens in the room. She was starving,  and with some luck this would help to alleviate some of the fatigue she was feeling too. It takes a few bites of sandwich before she eyes the other teens. “Thank you for this.  I didn’t realize I was so drained.” 

“ ‘Course, Poppet.” 

“Yeah, Princess . Sirius is the one who got Nipsy, I was just going to let you sleep.” 

“Well, still, thank you on both counts. The nap  probably helped, if I just  ate I’d likely conk out straight after supper.” 

“Can’t have that. What if the adults want to actually do something?!” Sirius fakes horror at the thought, and Hermione lifts a hand to hide her laughter as she’s still chewing. 

“Do something, Sirius? You must be mad, we’re boring here! It’s all books and conversations over tea and brandy, nothing interesting like going out  and dancing or seeing a play or seeing a concert.” James sniffs as imperiously as he can manage before nibbling his sandwich. “We’re sophisticated here.” 

“ As if  _ books _ and conversation are boring! James –“ Hermione pauses, blinking when she realizes she has no idea what his middle name is. “James…. ” Would it follow the same pattern as Harry’s had? Named for his father. 

“You’re looking for Fleamont, Pet. James Fleamont Potter.” Sirius takes far too much joy in revealing that,  leaning just to the side to catch the chip that’s pelted at him in his mouth. 

“Fleamont?! Really?” 

James sighs, “Unfortunately. I’m just thankful that’s not  _ my  _ name. It was my father’s  father’s name, and a family name that married into the Potter’s a few centuries ago. I am going to make sure it dies with me, however.” 

“It’s…  well, it’s not exactly posh, is it?” Hermione hedges around calling it god awful, though in truth it really is. “I’d have thought you’d carry your father’s name or a favored uncle’s or –“

“Oh hell. Imagine it James! James Cygnus Potter,  or James  _ Arcturus _ !” Sirius’ eyes are wide as he looks at his friend seriously. “You do have a bit of the Black temper, and if your hair were  long I’d bet it curls.” 

“What the hell did I do to you today, eh?” James looks horrified, and she can’t quite see why. What’s wrong with curly hair after all? Though, try as she might she can’t picture him with long hair.  “No one likes Great-Uncle Cygnus, not even mum, and while your grandfather is great, he and Mum aren’t exactly bosom buddies right now.”

“Right  now doesn’t much matter, Prongs. If she’d been a little less  potioned up – you could have been Arcturus instead of your dad slipping in Fleamont right under her nose! Bet Malfoy wouldn’t have looked sideways at you during your first year if you had been.”

“Malfoy has a stick with pureblood shoved up his arse, I don’t give two tosses what he does or doesn’t do.” James bites the words out harshly and Hermione has to wonder where the bad blood between them comes from. Isn’t Lucius a good few years older than  them? 

“ _ Anyway _ , James Fleamont, Books and Conversation are hardly boring. Though, I’ve never been to a wizarding  play so I haven’t an reference for how interesting or boring they might be. As for dancing,  Wizards dance like it’s still 1899, and I have little interest in being waltzed around a room for hours on end trying to balance a conversation clearly going no where or avoid being stepped on by the lead.” 

“Right she is on the waltzing, mate. Muggles, though, now they know how to dance!” Sirius has a look on his face that makes Hermione’s nose scrunch. 

“ You letch,  muggles are discoing around the clock right now at least out here they are, how can you look like that over such a ridiculous dance?” 

“It’s the pants, love, those pants the birds are wearing. Whew,” Sirius gives himself a shake while James rolls his eyes. He’d been conned out into going with Sirius to a few discos. They were all right, but he felt out of place , under dressed for the occasions. 

“Ugh. I’d rather be in a punk rock club, at least they have good music going,” Hermione waves a hand to dismiss Sirius’ point of view and  finishes off one of her sandwiches. The reigning silence makes her pause as she reaches for the second. “What?” 

“ ** You ** like punk rock?” James looks intrigued and Sirius has new found respect for the poised and posh  witch in front of them. 

“Quite a lot, actually. I especially liked it when I was younger. It helped me work out all that teenage angst”  Her smirk is echoed by Sirius. Working out teenage angst is one way to put how useful Punk rock could be. 

“I can’t imagine you in spiked leather and combat boots,” Sirius teases and watches out of his periphery as James’ face takes on a far away look.  _ He _ might not be able to picture it, but the Potter heir sure as hell can if that dopey look is any indication. If they don’t kiss by New Years, Sirius resolves to  lock them in a cupboard somewhere in the manor. The attraction was ridiculous. 

“Well, the combat boots I definitely do, or would do. I will when I’m not trying to be quite as picture perfect.” She shrugs her slim shoulders. “ I found them comfortable. Jeans that aren’t the size of a ring tent are also wonderful.” 

Sirius sni ckers at the far away look on her face. This is a witch who clearly chafes having to wear skirts all the time. A very quiet distaste for them is evident in the way her eyes  drop and her fingers pluck at her purple one. 

“Why wear skirts if you don’t like them?” 

“It’s not that I don’t like them, I do. I simply don’t enjoy living in them. Uniforms are one thing, but always wearing a dress or skirt and top? Please, spare me, I need to be able to move unhindered , and skirts aren’t exactly conducive to that. Slacks and jeans are much better for the sort of mischief I get up to.” 

Her fond smile falters, when she’s hit by the reminder, she doesn’t get up to mischief here. Her  partners in crime are nowhere to be found and won’t be for years. Even then, she will be in her twenties and they will be newborns. It won’t be even a tiny bit similar.

“Well, Eze, I can’t wait to see these jeans and slacks make a comeback. Your wardrobe screams proper witch now, with a bit of an exotic flair, mind, but I want to see you in a suit.” Even if he wasn’t trying to pull the bird, he can imagine her in a proper suit and it’s a sight.  James goes glassy eyed again, and Black pats himself on the back mentally. A sight indeed. 

Hermione doesn’t even notice. She’s day dreaming about jeans and jumpers . Smart dark jeans with flats and crisp blouses. Too English, too Western for her right now. She wanted to be accepted, she could introduce different fashions at a much alter date. It’s a worthwhile sacrifice in the long run. But come 1985 she’d be wearing  proper jeans or have died attempting to get them back into her wardrobe. 

Lunch continues pleasantly, with the present marauders regaling Hermione with some of their exploits in years past. She had to give them credit for a few of their capers, they were  much more advanced for their ages at the time than she might have assumed.  The color changing charm for the robes, in their third year, that was fifth year material.  The potion they’d used as well was advanced material.  She was particularly interested in the silk that apparently still hung in the halls of Hogwarts. 

“What did you transfigure?” James and Sirius looked at one another and shrugged, turning to her with proud smiles. 

“He didn’t transfigure anything, Poppet. James conjured it.” 

Hermione ’s eyes widen, face carefully blank as she considers that. James conjured the silk. James had put enough power into the spell to  make it permanent when h was gone. Like a room enlargement charm. That took several spells combined into the charm. There was a root to it, to make it permanent. Which begged the question – what had James anchored the silk to? 

“You have a question in your eyes,” James smiles, and it’s the first time she’s seen this particular smile.  It’s softer than  most and makes her heart beat double for a moment. 

“Yes. What did you make the anchor for the spell. Permanent transfigurations, even temporary ones, have an anchor element to the magic.  So must conjurations, and you’ve had that silk up since October –“

“ You don’t need to explain the process, Hermione.” He laughs, hazel eyes sparking. “I’m actually quite good with charm work , I combine several base spells for it. Remus initially suggested a physical  anchor but it’s too easy to misplace one of those and last thing I needed was a firstie or different house getting hold of it and reverse engineering the  spell work . So, the base of the spell was the intent for permanence until dispelled specifically by me,  I layered the anchoring to that intent , then another intent over top of the anchor and then the conjuration with a preservation charm to finish it. The flowers are similar with a proximity and intent hex to  keep people from getting ideas about pulling it down or just nicking one of the flowers.” 

Again, Hermione’s eyes get a little wider, and her face is kept carefully neutral. She needn’t bother with doing all the work.  James can also see the color warming her cheeks, and knows the gesture is more than appreciated. Especially given the level of work that went into the little tribute to her. 

She’s a bit awed, really, that a boy  who’d known her for a few weeks at that point, went to all the trouble to remind people she’d been there.  She’s not sure Ron and Harry would even go that far. Harry, perhaps. They’d always been a bit closer to one another than she ad Ron had been.  She sees where that loyalty comes from now.  If the potter men weren’t so brash and  cocksure, they’d be perfect Hufflepuffs. 

“That’s – that’s quite a lot for a girl you barely knew.” 

He shrugs,  chomping on a chip. “You made an impression, beyond the way we met.  I admire your drive for change, that you know what’s going on outside the schools and don’t ignore it. People in our year, even Seventh years who are getting ready to go out and live aren’t focusing on the fact a war is quietly brewing. That people are missing and turning up dead at a frankly alarming rate. It’s always the muggleborns and  Halfbloods too . So pure kids just ignore it, and so do a lot of the rest, honestly. Ignore the terror and it will hopefully ignore you. But that’s an ignorant way to go about life.” 

He sighs  heavily, and Hermione finds herself leaning forward as he continues. “You see it, hell you were on the front line for a moment, and you’re not older than I am. You’ve got your apparition license and you’re sixteen years old  – you’ve met your Animagus form, you have ideas about the rights of witches –“ 

“He’s in awe of you, Princess. We all are a bit.” Sirius cuts off James before he says something that it might be too soon for. Though watching them watch one another, he’s not sure it’s too soon. 

Hermione’s mouth opens to say something, anything, in response to all of that when the doors of the Library open. She turns, alert and wary as always, but grins when she see’s her grandfather walk through the doors.  “Papa!” 

“Ah, I knew you would still be here.” Akuch i smiles, looking at the scene with interest. There’s an undeniable tension in the air , and he can smell leftover protection magic. A perk  of being old and so often a part of such magic. That and his dear granddaughter’s aura is flaring  oddly, in time with her heartbeat. That isn’t common, and he doesn’t know the boys well enough at all to look at their auras to compare the three. 

“Of course. Mr. Potter was kind enough to let me use the library, why should I waste the opportunity? That, and James and Sirius were uniquely qualified to help me with a bit of research this afternoon.”

“Ah, is that why I  can feel remnants of protection charms? What were you working on, Hermione Adaeze.” 

“I wanted to meet my form – it was safe, they made sure to keep the runes  properly placed and guided me in meditation. It was much more fruitful than when I tried at home. Though I’m not entirely sure why.” 

“Your tutor obviously doesn’t know you well enough, that is an oversight on my part.” He grumbles and harrumphs, looking at the young man who are a touch pale. “I take it  your ministry isn’t aware of your level of knowledge?” 

“No sir.” James is going for confidence, he’s sure, but it falls a little flat. Evidenced by the way Sirius flinches. 

“Mm.  Perhaps keep it that way for now.” 

That gets his Hermione  furrowing her brows, looking at him sharply. Akuchi is hardly a proponent of unlawful behavior, not being in the position of Regent.  He has little love for the English Empire,  broken as it is. But to go as far as to say that? 

“Papa?”

“Let’s go duel, Hermione Adaeze. I won’t let you get complacent over holidays, especially not here.” 

Her eyes narrow as she pushes herself to her feet, hands brushing against her wrapper. Something had happened. Something bad.  “ James, Sirius, come with us, I know you must be curious as to how one duels without a wand.” 

“Brilliant.” The word seems a bit subdued coming from the boys, but they get up as well, James calling for Nipsy and thanking him for lunch before asking him to clear it away.  It makes Hermione smile to see him treating Nipsy like an intelligent being instead of a piece chattel to be abused and discarded.  She hopes that this time,  Sirius might learn something from James. Or perhaps, if the fates will it,  have frequent reminders instead. 

The quartet tro op down into the garden the quiet  between them  threaded with anticipation.  There wasn’t a dueling club or instruction at Hogwarts. There hadn’t been call for a teacher in decades, apparently. A pity in the Marauder’s opinion, what with  the students ’ penchant to absolutely disregard the no magic in the halls rule. It would give the younger years a bit of a  chance in  defending themselves from vicious upper years. 

But, how would it work with out a wand, a focus? Neither James nor Sirius  can fathom not using their wand, unless of course it was completely soundless. Even then, it seemed a bit, well difficult. How did one aim? Was this part of her troubles with learning  in a different setting?  _ Did _ she have difficulty adjusting? Both were hard pressed to imagine the maiden witch who was so knowledgeable about the most esoteric of topics would have trouble adjusting to anything. 

Then again, looks could be deceiving. Severus was  a slimy little git, who knew far more than anyone with robes as ill taken care of as his, or so few friends as he claimed, could be in league with people like Malfoy and Travers. Dark little bastards the lot of them. Further, how could Lily, compassionate,  fiery , sweet, forgiving Lily,  be so entangled with the git? 

The world is full of little mysteries. None so much as how Hermione upon stepping outside the back door of the Manor, apparate d without so much as a sound, while tripping her grandfather. Her grandfather who laughs in delight  and calls after her, “Clever girl! Never let them see you coming.” 

From there it was a bit of a race into the back garden, away from the seasonal flower bed and the potions ingredients, away from the small patch of vegetables into the grassy knoll. Jinxes and hexes were flying, all without much sound on the elder Wizard’s part, and Hermione’s mouth moving  when should could not be utterly silent. It was a touch  mind-blowing , to see the way a darted glance, wrinkled nose, subtle point or sneer could produce stunners, shields, and other spells. 

Hermione fairly danced  as she shot spell after spell. Her casting was more overt than her guardian’s, less sophisticated. James can see her fingers twitch,  the desire to lift her wand or make the movements clear. At one point, when she trips on her own, her hand flings out, and her shield shimmers into view.  It’s the most obvious spell casting so far. 

“Ah, a habit, sweet girl.” Her grandfather pauses, shaking his head and swallowing his laughter. “You’ll need to resist that in  actual duels. No telegraphing, though you are doing much better than your first few days with your instructor. He was convinced you were a lost cause.” 

“He’s a rude old man, Papa.” Hermione grumbles as she pushes herself up and quickly dispels the  snow from her clothing. Her heating runes were holding up nicely, she didn’t feel the bite of the air at all, and she wasn’t getting wet, so the repelling runes were also holding. She nods, pleased with herself.  They are silent for a moment and then, then she sneaks a glance at her Grandfather and smirks as the tickling jinx hits and she apparates away. 

The duel is back on, and this time they up the ante with spells that are a little more likely to cause a bit of pain if and when they hit. Stinging hexes,  papercut curses and the like fly around the  snow covered clearing. James is in awe of Hermione’s endurance. He wouldn’t have lasted more than two minutes  in a duel. Not if it was serious, at least he doesn’t think so. 

It’s one thing to get into a Hex match with Severus, it’s another entirely when you were trying to defeat someone.  He doesn’t think this is meant to be a life or death situation, but he can’t help but see the application. It’s daunting. It’s frightening, knowing he sees that. He’s sixteen and really just woken up at the beginning of the school year. Hermione moves like she knows she has to keep going or a hex will hit and that might be it. 

He remembers her scarring. His breath stills in his chest. She had fought for her life before, more than once.  Her grandfather was old, older than he let on visually and older than Hermione even hinted at. Too much  dislike for the English. Like he’d been around when it had been a proper empire on the muggle side of things. Dots are beginning to connect, watching the two of them appear and disappear dodging and flinging spells left right and center without much noise at all. 

When Hermione hisses, her hand going to her arm even as she turns and disappears, James feels himself reaching for Sirius. The taller boy is just as tense, his face pulled tight, lips frowning, brows pulled together.  At least he isn’t alone. 

“She’s too good.” Sirius breathes out the words. “This is more than a few months with a dueling instructor.” His eyes bounce, following curses as they ramp up again. A breath hisses through his teeth. “Bugger, they’re throwing battle magic.” 

“I can feel it.” The tension had gone from playful to serious in a snap of fingers. “And you’re right. I mean, we knew. She said.”

“Yeah mate, but to see it.” 

“I know.” James feels like he’s going to fly out of his skin watching this. It’s not even a serious fight. Hermione’s grandfather is  _ training _ her, not attempting to take her life. Even so, his heart is leaping up to his throat every time a more sinister curse is lobbed.  Like a tennis match, their eyes follow back and forth, back and forth.  Sometimes just one spell is thrown and sometimes there are four  hot on the heels of the one that came before it.  On some level, it’s impressive. Gentle witches of the Noble class within England didn’t duel. Not unless you were Augusta Longbottom who could whip spells at people on an Auror competency level. 

“It’s seeing her do it, though. Seeing her fight with that ferocity, and knowing that it isn’t ferocity fueling her really, not against her grandfather, at any rate. It’s extrapolating what it would have been like the day she came to the train, the day she got that dark magic scar on her chest.” 

“ She’s a war witch.” Sirius declares it, no doubt in his voice. “She’s a leader and a skilled duelist. She’ll be a general if a  full scale war comes her way. Yeah, she’s slow right now,  being very careful not to send anything truly dangerous and keeping her aim as sharp as it can be right  now so no spells go awry – but get her in an adrenalin fueled situation, where it’s her or them, her or her loved ones – I think she’d take down an army.” 

“I don’t know if I should propose or run the other way.” 

Sirius spares the slightly shorter wizard a glance at the remark with a snort of disbelief. Didn’t know his left arse cheek. James would propose given half a hope of hearing a yes from the witch currently putting their magical skills to shame.  Hermione was too fierce, too compassionate, to loyal for James to ignore. It didn’t hurt she was drop dead lovely either.  Her outfits left much to be desired, but still her beauty was a beacon. If Sirius hadn’t held his little flame for Lily, with her sharp tongue, fire temper and hair, he’d be after her and cling like a limpet. That’s a witch worth waiting for, worth the work of courting and standing in the shadow of. 

A soft shrill cry marks the end of the duel, and Hermione falls from a tree at the edge of the clearing,  landing with a heavy thud. James is off like a shot, and Akuchi strolls over sedately. Sirius shakes his head. Akuchi has hidden  depths, and reminds him far too much of his own Father. If Orion weren’t constantly made to bend to Walburga’s deranged will, things might be more peaceful in the Black home, but wishes did not grant horses. 

Sirius ambles over and bites back laughter seeing James fuss over Hermione. He’s checking her over from head to toe, dusting her off with murmured spells and grumbling. What’s cutest, is Hermione allowing it, her cheeks reddened likely in embarrassment that her grandfather had defeated her, or perhaps pleasure in the fussing. 


	13. Chapter 13

Akuchi does not hold his laughter, watching as James curls his arm around his petite granddaughter and ushers her away into his house.  His Hermione protested gently that she was fine, that the fall hadn’t been far or hard, and she didn’t need any potions, not that James was listening to her. It warmed his heart and saddened him to see them together. 

Really Akuchi had hoped this visit would let any fostered feelings die into a gentle friendship. He hadn’t expected to see such devotion from the boy. Both of them truthfully, thought it was clear one brother-in-magic had his eyes firmly elsewhere romantically. He’d be inclined to lecture and meddle if it weren’t so clearly a good match. He wouldn’t even try to stop whatever was blossoming before his eyes. 

Times are different now, he knows. No matter how he would like Hermione to choose a good Igbo man or even just an African man, she will do as her heart guides her. Exactly like her mother and grandmother before her.  Her heart and her magic would see her matched appropriately, even if Akuchi hated the match. 

Thankfully, the Potter heir seems a good sort. Rapidly maturing, with Hermione apparently as a catalyst. Or more accurately, the war bringing Hermione into his vision, the catalyst. 

Sweet mercy but he doesn’t want her within a league of English waters. These people took advantage, they took period, they lorded their god above all others, and  their way of magic. He wouldn’t forget his past, even if the future seemed better. There are too many hurts for Akuchi Eze to do that. Too much bad blood. And with the English having a rising Dark Lord? The past seemed to just be placed on repeat. 

“ Mr. Eze you look thousands of miles away this afternoon.” 

Dorea Potter’s voice drags him back from his mind and he gives a laugh, waving away the worry in her eyes. Silver eyes. Uncanny. “Have no worry, Mrs. Potter. The thoughts of an elderly man worried after his granddaughter.” 

“Hardly idle, those sorts of thoughts.” Silver eyes that see more than he’d like it would appear. 

“Mm. Are a parent’s worries ever idle?” 

Those eyes move to the door where the youngest Potter had ushered the youngest Eze. “No. They never are, I’m afraid.” 

The 21 st was the Ministry Ball to celebrate yule. It was strategically placed to not interfere with the actual  solstice and be close enough to be seen as promoting traditional practices. Hermione was curious as to how in just  t wenty years, so much changed in England.  She couldn’t remember the Weasleys even mentioning a ball, and it seems he sort of thing Molly would have pulled out her sewing kit for . 

But Hermione doesn’t have a vast amount of time to think on the subject. Mrs. Potter snaps her up just after lunch, no dueling or meditation time today, and  they help one another to get ready. 

“Thank you, Hermione, for the indulgence. I wanted a daughter for years to be able to experience this .” Dorea’s hands are nimble and navigate Hermione’s braids easily. They are handled with care as they’re twisted into a large glorious bun at the top of her head.  A little wand work has glittering specks of golden and white light winking through out the style. It’s fairy like and Hermione adores it. 

“I should really be thanking you, Mrs. Potter. It’s not e xactly the welcome I anticipated when I received your initial invitation. I was terribly worried you’d assume I was after James. The reality is much more  pleasant, and my stay here has been lovely.  Your family is lovely.” 

“I’ll let the boys know you think so,” Dorea re sponds coyly,  feigning interest in adjusting the silk ribbon on Hermione’s bun rather than watching for the young witch’s  cheeks flair  a fetching pink. She’s a highly faceted young lady and Dorea appreciates how those facets shine independently of one another. Not all  women were able to allow that – some simply hid behind a single façade all of their days. Her grand- niece Walburga was like that. A pity. 

“Now, make up.” Dorea surveys the younger witch critically.  She would of course follow the rule of faming the face, eyebrows, lips and eyes, but she didn’t think they needed to go so far as foundation. Maybe just a few quick  complexion potions to make her  dewy. Dorea had plenty of those, at her age, wrinkles were just beginning to start up, so nothing more extensive was needed. 

Hermione, on the other hand, could see every little flaw of her face. Her pores through her  cheeks were too big. Her cheeks were chubby, her nose not quite button enough, her eyes too far apart. Her cheekbones at least were  pretty and her lips. But overall, the witch saw herself as dreadfully plain. Mrs. Potter would have quite the magical workout to make her presentable. 

It makes her think of the Yule ball, actually. Two  _ whole _ bottles of sleekea z y went into her hair, her make up took her seemingly forever, but it had been worth it in the end. This time things seemed to be flying by. Her hair was already done, braided and twisted into an elegant bun, the fairy light sparkles, and Dorea hadn’t even broken a sweat!


	14. Time skip because writers block

She runs through the chaos that is Diagon Alley. She should never have agreed to James going to the Wizengamut session without protection. Aurors, the warriors of her tribe, someone. Lily is steps behind Hermione, and she knows similar thoughts are going through the redhead’s mind. Their men were too outspoken for them to be without some measure of back up, not in England. Morgana, not alone in England. 

Her eyes dart two and fro, a dark look in them as she runs for the Ministry. As an International diplomat she arrived in bloody Gringotts. Th best security in these trying times, said the minister. Pain in her arse, said Hermione. A stunner whips her way and she blinks quickly, her protego going up in the same breath. Lily flicks hexes and severing charms to their left. A shout tells them one has hit. They keep going, shoes slapping against the cobblestones. 

In Hermione’s original time, Voldemort had never out right attacked the Wizengamut. Then again, Voldemort had been enthralled by prophecy in her timeline, and the circumstances had changed. Four years, three marriages, and so far, no children. The Weasley’s had Ronald Bilius, but there was no Harry Potter, no Neville Longbottom yet. Regulus Black was not dead, though he had given over the seat of the house of Black to Sirius Evans. There was no Evans scion yet, but their magic thrummed hard through the air none-the-less. Just as the combine Potter-Eze family magics did. 

“There!” Lily’s voice makes Hermione pull to a stop, head turning. There they were, the entrance that had been used in Hermione’s fifth year. She isn’t able to shove down residual horror at the sight of the entrance. It does not stop her from running at a full tilt toward her husband, however. She throws herself at him with a sharp cry of “James Fleamont!” while Lily does similarly to Sirius. Their embraces are short, the battle still tearing apart the alley. 

“I told you something would go wrong this morning. First official session as Lord bloody Evans and Voldemort attacks.” 

“You should have had a guard! You are the known spouse of the Head of the African Council! I’ve a junior seat on the ICW for pity’s sake and you’re just gallivanting about like Voldemort would love our heads on platters!” 

The difference is, Hermione shouts it at James in Igbo, her words furious and terrified. Her eyes glisten and she pays no mind to the Evans’ argument. Her husband was her focus. Her without a sense of self-preservation, hero-complex, won’t put anyone in danger except himself, husband. His reply to her is stilted and his eyes flash with irritation. 

“I can’t be seen as your husband in that room, Hermione! I have to represent the Potters –“ 

“You aren’t just a Potter anymore! You’re an Eze too, and we have large targets upon our backs.” 

“I want to honor my father, your grandfather’s sacrifice to keep them safe.” 

“Honor them all, and your mother by staying alive!” Hermione reaches forward, hands on his cheeks, visibly tempering herself. “I love you, you mad, rash, man, but I need you by my side to do what needs to be done. You keep me in the light, your love, your determination. Just as I do for you. Now let me keep you alive.” 

James fairly growls at her, a sound not often heard from the brunet. He pulls her to him by her hips, fingers almost bruising in their hold. Anger makes his magic flair, his hair standing near on end. It’s unclear still if the anger is directed at her for ‘overstepping’ as his wife, or with the Death Eaters still at large. 

“You’re maddening yourself, you know. Our people need you intact, you can’t always run after me.” 

“A leader is only as useful as her commitment to family. I won’t budge on this.” 

“Fine you insufferable swot. I’ll bring a guard retinue with me next time. For now, we need to help as many people as we can.” He nods toward the chaos of the main alley and Hermione nods without hesitation. Saving people with him at her side was hardly something out of her ability. 

“Lady and Lord Evans,” James turns to Sirius and Lily returning fully to English, grimacing when he finds the redhead fairly wrapped around Sirius. Was nothing a mood killer to them? It was a wonder they weren’t parents six or eight times over with their antics. 

“Lily! Sirius! People need our help.” Hermione flicks her fingers, the jet of magic hitting Sirius in the thigh. He swears a storm, nearly toppling over. 

“Hell, Eze-Potter, can’t you tone that shite down? It felt like I was hit by one of those miniature muggle taser weapons.” 

“Did the job, now get your arse in gear.” 

An explosion sends them into the main street of Diagon, and Hermione yelps upon seeing Zonko’s in flames. Flames that are rapidly eating into the next building, a café from the looks of things. Lily surges forward, her wand directing the wave of conjured water to the flames furiously. Flames that resist the water and prompt James to summon the dirt from the streets to douse the flames instead. 

It takes longer than either would like o kill the flames, their partners watching their backs and looking for civilians to guide to safety. It’s suspiciously quiet in the chaos, without a single dark mark emblazoned upon the horizon. Sirius notes as much. 

“I’ve got a bad feeling, Eze. No dark mark, no death eaters running about like they were earlier. Stinks of a trap.” 

“Yes.” The small war witch nods, her lips pulled into a thin line. “This is a trap. Your senior Auror is doing well by you I see.” 

“Can’t be all lordly without money to back up the title,” he shrugs, grey eyes moving, ever stopping, scrutinizing the dark corners. 

“It’s not my fault you wouldn’t accept a proper wedding gift.” Hermione throws down temporary war wards. The hairs on her arms are standing on end. Not from the wash of magic still lingering in Diagon, but the sheer lack of dark wizards and Aurors. Hell, the lack of Ministry personnel is worrying without the knowledge of the Wizengamut meeting slated for the day. 

“This quiet reeks of a setup, James, Lily, hurry up. We shouldn’t linger any longer here.” Hermione moves toward the exit of the small alley when giggling reaches her ears. Giggling that makes her blood run cold. She’s heard it before, more often in her nightmares on truly bad nights. 

Bellatrix Black. 

“Lily the portkey, take it with Sirius now.” There isn’t any protest from the Evans woman as she slaps her hand over her husband’s mouth and whispers portus. Hermione feels the wards she’d placed on the Evans estate shift and knows her friends are safe. Her fingers barely touch James’ sleeve when she’s blasted against the wall. A sickening crack makes her stomach roll and her vision swim. Cracked something, skull if she’s very unlucky, ribs if the fates are kind. 

“Hermione!” James throws up shields as he starts a pain relief charm before a quick diagnostic. Or it would have been quick, had spells not flooded their alley like so much water. He drags her toward the doorway to the Ministry instead. And she maintains the strongest charm shield possible. A trickle down the back of her neck tempts her to cast blood magic. Stronger, harder to bust through. 

“Look! Look Master! The blood traitor and his little foreign queen. We’ve got them cornered!” Bella’s face swims into focus and Hermione hisses, a half transformation overcoming her. That horrid bitch, Hermione loathes her, though she’s not quite as horrid now as she had been then. 

“I see them, dearest Bella.” That softly charming voice is wrong all wrong. She’d heard him in their first year, in memories during fifth year, the echoes in the corridor during her nightmares from the battle at the Ministry. He hadn’t done whatever it is yet that had turned him more snake than man. 

Even so, Hermione doesn’t find Voldemort handsome. He reeks of death magic, of darkness, and it makes her stiffen in James’ arms. James who is cursing while trying to get the door open. 

“Don’t bother, Mr. Potter, one of my underlings has taken care of the door from the inside. Only a handful of the commons got out. The rest are dying as we speak, screaming, one would hope.” 

“You’re a sociopath,” Hermione’s words are a touch slurred, but he understands her, and laughs seemingly in delight at her assertion. 

“Mrs. Potter, I’ve been desirous to meet you for quite some time. Powerful, incredibly intelligent from what I’ve read in the papers, youngest High Witch of the African Council of Nations since it’s inception and the invasion of the western influences. You are as delightful as I’d hoped. Though your marriage leaves much to be desired.” He tuts at her as if she were a wayward child, and her transformed eyes narrow to slits. Her lip curls at the slight, fangs on display for all to see. 

“Impressive, I must give credit where credit is due. You are renown for your mastery of the old arts, and you are quite in tune with your animal side, aren’t you?” He steps over the halfway point between the alley entrance and where the couple stand. Hermione jerks forward, sensing the threat, instincts demanding she keep her mate safe. 

“She’s an animal, my lord. May I put her down?” Bella simpers off to their left, and those narrowed eyes find her in a blink. Hatred boils in Hermione’s bones and it manifests in Bella’s scream. Take her ability to render others inert. Take her ability to create more like her. Hermione has no idea if Bellatrix wanted children, desired them, had had them in her time. But that doesn’t matter. It won’t happen in this time. Severing charms layer with an entrail expelling curse wielded with delicate directive. 

James has to throw up another shield as stunners are shot en mass at them. Hermione doesn’t blink. She focuses on Bella, on getting what she wants from the bitch out. Take her perceived worth. Take it. Destroy it. Make her worthless in the eyes of her fellows. Prove that she is an enemy to be careful with. 

“My, but you are vicious.” Voldemort watches with fascination as Bellatrix is torn asunder so delicately. He can tell exactly what the other Witch is about to do and has no interest in saving the bint screaming at his left. She shouldn’t have been so lax with her own safety. Everyone knew Potter’s wife was a war witch. The witches of legend were not known for compassion on a battle field, not like they were in times of peace. Peace begets forgiveness, battle is for ruthless victories. 

He doesn’t flinch or gag as the men behind him do when the Witch is divested of her womb and accoutrement. It’s a short kind of torture, he notes, with far reaching consequences. There will never be a child from Bellatrix Lestrange. Of all his female followers, Bella would have been his choice. Steeps in dark family magic, just the right side of deranged and loyal to her very marrow. He’s been robbed of the possibility of an heir from her. The world has been robbed of the continuation of a pure line through her. 

The bitch is brilliant, and just as ruthless as war with lore indicated she would be. He flicks a crucio at her, enraged he would have to resort to the Carrow twin for an heir now. It wasn’t as though Voldemort kept witches in his ranks a plenty. Those two were special. Those two were ideal, though Alecto was nothing pleasant to look at, her wand work was impeccable. 

Voldemort’s fascination switches targets when there are no screams coming from his victim. Oh, Bella is still screaming, blood still leaking from the precise cut still in her abdomen, but none from the black witch. She should be writhing, begging for mercy. His eyes move to her, and see only Potters hand on her shoulder, her eyes averted from Bellatrix, faces grim, a hand up as if to stop – but it’s the Cruciatus, nothing stops that. 

“How interesting,” the purred words make the couple flinch, though the stony faces don’t faulter. They become more and more interesting as the years pass. As teens they had been above average in bravery and spell casting, as a married couple they were more powerful, and thus a package deal, now that Eze-Potter is leader of her family and tribe, leader of an entire continent she is an asset. Potter could be as well, if he managed to work his way into the ranks of the Peers as he’d clearly been poised to do. An obvious plan, with quite a lot of merit behind it. More so for Voldemort, who could use the Potters to show even “light” families saw that his rule was worthy. 

They are, however, remarkably stubborn. Which is truly a problem. He’s gone this long without killing them, but soon he won’t be able to give more chances. His patience with them wears thin. Thinner now that the Evans girl and her blood-traitor husband are gone from his grasp. 

“You cost me quite a lot, Hermione Eze-Potter. Even for a war Witch you go to great lengths to thwart me.” The silken nature of his tone hides the malice but not enough, it still shines in his eyes. 

Hermione’s shoulders are thrown back, her chin tilted in defiance. She’s a full two heads shorter than he is, and she dares look at him as if he is nothing “I plan to cost you more before this is over, Voldemort. Much, much more.” 

“And if you turn to the darkness you fight?” 

“Not possible,” she remarks with a derisive laugh. “Darkness like yours is born, and my kind are inherently grey, always straddling the divide. I will end lines, but I won’t kill people. I will bind magic but meddle with no mind.” 

Her message is clear. She’s dangerous because she renders things useless rather than taking them from the board all together. She’s far more dangerous than Dumbledore because she’ll do it herself. He will place pawns to attempt it for him, not her. 

She deserves the mantle on her shoulders, the utter bitch of a genius. How best to defeat an enemy greater than yourself? Cripple him of resources. 

“Well see one another again, Eze.” 

“Perhaps next time I’ll rip your throat out, Riddle.” 

When the maniac disapparates, Hermione grabs James and barks the password for their portkey. They just barely miss a barrage of hexes and curses. The moment they land, Hermione shoves James toward their decontamination zone, courtesy of the Ọlaedo goblins. It’s a bit like the Thieves waterfall from Hermione’s understanding, literally washing away those charms and curses that could be used against them and their property. 

“Hermione, we need to talk about what just happened.” James only speaks when they’re thoroughly washed, and he’s got color high on his cheeks. Anger no doubt, at her attitude of late. Now that the danger is past, even Hermione can admit she’s been a bit of a Harpy. 

“Must we?” She sighs the words already knowing her husband’s answer. 

“Yes. You taunted him, Mi. Taunted the dark bleeding lord after unmanning his best witch. You hit her so obviously to end the line she’d married into that no one would miss it. That – that was dark intent, Mi.” 

“Yes, and no.” She shoves her hands through her unbound coils of hair. “Blood for blood, they’ve ended lines, without prejudice, and I am just returning the favor. My intent was pure, to protect. Any child born of and raised by that bitch of a woman would have ended up just as twisted. Voldemort himself would have co-opted her womb the moment Lestrange had his child out of her. You could see it tonight!” 

“Mi…” James shakes his head, running his hands through his hair in exasperation. “No matter the reason you tortured someone today.” 

“They would have done worse to you, they have done worse to innocents.” 

“So, you give up your own light to meet them on the field?!” 

“If I must! I protect not just you, but any children we have, and my own people. Voldemort won’t stop at England. He won’t be content to eradicate the Lost from English soil and call it good. The continent will be next, and then Asia, and then Africa, until he takes over the world. I won’t let it happen. I won’t see you or Alice, or Lily, or Frank, or sirius fall under their wands! I won’t allow more children to be orphaned if I can help it.” 

“Hermione, that isn’t your job!” 

“Isn’t it? Who else is stepping up to the plate? I am the High Witch of my people, where is your Chief Wizard? Your Supreme Mugwump? Where is he while women and children and men just barely men are taken in the night, tortured, killed? What moves is he making besides sending our friends into danger without so much as a whisper of remorse?!” 

“Dumbledore is a school master, Hermione –“ James has always been a terrible liar when it comes to her. Always. Now is not even slightly different. 

“Don’t. Do not lie to me for him.” Her words thread with growl and James rocks back onto his heels. It’s rare that they fight like this. Truly they had a peaceful marriage by all counts, especially compared to that of Lily and Sirius or even Remus and Marnie. That’s to say nothing of Peter and the Bulstrode girl’s volatile courtship. 

“Albus Dumbledore is the Supreme Mugwump of the ICW, do you know that that means? He can petition for Aid from the Confederation. He should have years ago. It would not be a plea that goes unanswered! Instead, the man does nothing, sits in his school and recruits teenagers for an underground. Don’t even attempt to deny it, there are more people watching England than just spouses of those connected to the issue! You think our love match isn’t decried by those in power? You think it isn’t known Remus is off with the Werewolves of Romania and Bulgaria to attempt to court their favor for the Order? You truly think, that being my husband gives you more leeway? Everything about us is a known quantity to the council. I am too high a civil servant to be overlooked, and your involvement in the order is well known.” 

“England needs me! Needs Sirius, and Remus, and even Peter – we can change things.” 

“I’m not saying you can’t, but you need help. Lily knows it, Marnie knows it, Merlin and Morgana bloody well know it!” 

“Hermione,” his teeth are grit and his magic arcs through his hair. “I have to do things this way – “ 

“Why?! What logical purpose does it serve to serve you and Sirius up on a platter to the damned Death Eaters?! Our parents are in hiding, Lily’s are dead, Sirius’ thank fucking Merlin are also gone –“ It hits her like a brick. She stops midsentence and it all falls into place. A chessboard. Lily and Sirius without family but their closest friends. Friends who were well under a certain puppeteer’s thumb. Marnie alone, because Remus was off being ‘noble’. Peter an unknown variable. James and herself, seemingly in the same place as the Evans . 

“James.” Her voice is deadly calm, whiskey-caramel eyes narrowed, dangerous in their calculation. “Tell me that Dumbledore hasn’t orchestrated this farce. Tell me that he didn’t put you and Sirius on this wild ride to bloody well lure Voldemort out in an attempt to recruit or neutralize you!” 

James says nothing, but that flinch, that fucking FLINCH that Harry had when she’d known him once upon a time, tells her what she needs to know. Dumbledore was moving his pawns again. No children to line up to become soldiers in the parents’ stead. 

“How dare you all.” Hermione shakes, her hair standing away from her body in a wild and powerful mane. Her hurt is clear, her anger even clearer. “You would sacrifice yourself for his plan? A plan that hinges on your being in serious danger, possibly dying. For what? For spies within the ranks? For a grand moment of swooping in to save you all!? 

“What about your wives?! Did no one think of us? What about your parents?! If you die, where does that leave us? Where does that leave your lofty goals of changing England, of dragging it into the 20th century?! Well?!” 

“Let me get a word in edge wise! He asked us to do this before our weddings. Long before. When we were courting. When it wasn’t set we’d made a match. What was the harm of agreeing? The damned man puts too much of his magic into oaths of promise, and it came back to bite our arses spectacularly. We don’t want to be running around with god damn targets on our bloody backs! Sirius is still looking for a way out of the contract. The new Evans family magic is strong, and embedded in the blood –“ 

“As is mine.” She shakes her head. Some of the wind has been taken from her sails, but not nearly enough of it. “You could have told me this! You’re my husband, my partner in magic and life and you kept this from me! What if I or Lily fell pregnant, hm? It isn’t as if we’ve been actively avoiding the idea of children. What then? Do we carry the children of martyrs? Are we to offer up those babes in the name of the greater good too?! Where are the lines drawn, James? You aren’t a soldier! You’re an apprentice lawyer and politician!” 

“Mi! Stop. I know. Sirius knows. As for why I didn’t just talk to you about this – I haven’t got an excuse. I want you safe. Circe’s tits, woman, you’ve pissed Voldemort off more than I could ever hope to at every turn. You took his hit witch, a valuable commodity to him and his followers in several ways, and you left her bleeding in the fucking street her organs on the ground beside her. You’ve snubbed him relentlessly before our marriage and after. I’m more terrified for you than I am for me.” 

“I’m a war witch, for pity’s sake, James! I was always meant to be leading a charge or orchestrating it. My magic is turned to protect and avenge. My family magic exacerbates it, the blooded element is strong, stronger than I think you yet realize. I’m just as deadly with a cleaning charm as I am a curse or unforgivable. I cut through emotion and look at situations with a cold logic that I’m frankly shocked you can even begin to put aside to love me –“ 

“You’re also the most caring, compassionate, and mothering witch I know. You compliment me, and I you. I love you. Can you fault me for trying to keep you safe?” 

“Yes! Yes, I can when it may lead to a path where I walk this earth without you at my side!” The tears come without permission and Hermione feels so out of control. Emotionally, she tended to mask rather than suppress, so she was seen as mature, and level headed. Truthfully, she was and always will be a human who feels deeply. Her fear for James is palpable, but there is more there. Much more. 

Her magic is crackling along her skin, through her hair, between her blessed teeth! It’s not normal, even for the level of upset she’s exhibiting, and it makes James balk at embracing her. She could very well blow him through the wall of the house at the rate she’s putting off heat. 

ENDING -maybe??

“Finally, all the choices lined up as they should,” hands on her hips, the speaking woman tosses her hair, a smile of triumph prominent on her face. Her sisters scoff, one considerably older, and the other considerably younger than her. 

“Easy to make such a proclaimation –“ 

“-when it took us some number of permutations to get it all right.” The youngest mirrors the middle, hands upon her hips, but where the maiden shows triumph the other gently radiates annoyance. Not at the outcome, no, never that. Their greatest mistake was finally fixed, how could any of the trio be mad that Tom had been ushered to Tartarus? 

Their poor Tom, so abused, without recourse to fix it. They’d meddled too much in his life. The Prophecy, the girls, they were the ones who held the power once Tom had been lost to them. Lily wasn’t strong enough where she’d been placed, Hermione hadn’t been either. Both of them shuffled onto the sidelines as women so often were by mortals. 

No, this last flip of the coin had been prudent, and payed out beyond measure. Tom would suffer for their mistakes, but only for a time, and then he too would be free to roam the Elysian fields. Or perhaps he would choose to travel to Hel or Valhalla, perhaps there would be a place for him in Heaven should his soul learn his mistakes well enough. 

But Hermione and Lily were finally at their strongest, their boys would be strong, and the women they chose would be strong. Magic would permeate the lands again. Their daughters would birth nation leaders. All was set to rights. 

“We worked hard for this, magic allowed our meddling for eons, now we may rest a while.” 

“Yes. Just for a time, of course.” 

“Just until the great-grandchildren roam the earth.” 

“Yes, then we’ll take up watch again, and play our hand if the need arises.” 


End file.
